


Won't You be My Neighbor?

by ProblematicPitch, Spiro



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternate Universe - Village Life, Cameos, Crawly (snake), Dorks in Love, Easter Eggs, F/M, Fluff, Human!Demons, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Leslie the International Express Man, Linda Dorne, M/M, Maud - Freeform, Nonbinary Beelzebub, Nonbinary Character, Other, Pigeons, Pining, Sexual Objectification, Slow Burn, Slow Dancing, Social Anxiety, coarse language, garden party, human!angels, mild drinking, sexual innuendo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-05-18 18:36:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 52,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19340263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProblematicPitch/pseuds/ProblematicPitch, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiro/pseuds/Spiro
Summary: When Mr. A. Z. Fell moves to the quiet English village of Tadfield, he expects nosy neighbors and inquiries into his eccentric, solitary life. What he doesn't anticipate is Anthony J. Crowley, the surly nuisance / next-door-neighbor, who might very well need a friend as much as he does.





	1. The Tadfield Inquisition

**Author's Note:**

> We have a couple of chapters written already, so expect regular updates!

⁂

“Aziraphale Fell, at your service.” The tall blonde gentleman with the blushing-apple cheeks performed a sweeping bow. He never quite seemed to stop smiling. This made R. P. Tyler, Neighborhood Watch, very uncomfortable. But in truth, most things made him uncomfortable. 

“I’ve been asked to be your... _guide_ to the community, as it were.” Tyler put a lot of emphasis on _guide._ Putting lots of emphasis on certain words was a tried-and-true method in the arsenal with which he faced the great war of Keeping Things in Order, As They Were. Long pauses apparently imbued with subtle meanings tended to give others the impression he knew something they didn’t, a reputation which he preferred to cultivate at all times. ‘Never let the enemy have the upper hand’, was his motto, even (and perhaps especially) if the enemy was Linda from the Community Tea. 

“Much obliged, I’m sure!” Aziraphale pulled out a carpet bag and a wheelie suitcase from the moving lorry. His actions were watched by an unseemly amount of pigeons. 

Tyler gave the birds a skeptical appraisal. “These your birds, young man?” _Pigeons!_ he groaned inwardly. _Of all the unfortunate pets!_ Almost as bad as... _his_ pets. He shuddered, preferring not to think of the Man Who Shan’t Be Named. Pigeons liked to chatter incessantly and crap on one’s car and generally spread Filth and Pestilence. Schutzi, the poor dull thing, finally noticed the birds and began yapping her little head off. They fluttered and cooed in alarm. 

“That they are.” He grinned. It was awfully uncouth to go around baring one’s teeth like that all the time. Fell was dressed like an old-fashioned country heir, from the riding coat to the spats over his shoes. Ordinarily, Tyler would have license to complain about the wayward fashions of the youth, with their bright colors and utter ignorance of proper haberdashery. But to see a man of ‘Mr. Zeeror Fell’s’ age dressed so _old_ was somehow more unsettling. It was unexpected, and there was nothing Ronald Peterson Tyler loathed more than the unexpected. “I’m a pigeon enthusiast, sir, what you might call a fancier." 

“Hmph.” He crossed his arms to suggest to Aziraphale that he did not fancy the idea of a ‘fancier’ in his village, at all. 

Aziraphale paid no mind to his host’s mood, if he even noticed it. He strode into his new cottage, addressing Tyler over his shoulder. “So, what might one do around here for fun?” 

“Respectable things,” said Tyler, drawing out the ‘r’ in a stately roll of the tongue. “Gardening. Reading. Leisurely conversation. Church. You consider yourself a church man, Mr. Fell?" 

“Pious as the day is long,” the man winked. Tyler had no idea how to take _that_. “So where, precisely, was it that a person such as myself may find some of that lively conversation?" 

“Well... the pub,” he admitted with great reluctance. Not that a pint of Ale now and again was entirely un-Christian, but some sorts of people just didn’t know how to restrain themselves and behave in a sensible manner. And something about this Fell fellow struck him as being on the side of decadence. 

Then there was that Pulsifer boy. Tyler liked young Newt as little as he liked anyone else in the village. He was perpetually anxious. Plus, his hands always shook. A career-ending trait for a bartender, in Tyler’s humble opinion. 

⁂

Eventually, Aziraphale was able to beg off old busybody Tyler by impressing upon him just how many boxes he still had to unpack. 

But unluckily for him, there were more uninvited guests making their way towards him, as he dove into the rather crumpled cardboard cubes that covered every square centimeter of his cozy new cottage. 

There were a few things about the village of Tadfield that Aziraphale Zephyr Fell (yes, his parents had named him that on purpose) might have appreciated knowing as he unpacked the first item in his brand-new home—the most important of which being that the residents of Tadfield were the nosy kind. 

New neighbors were the hottest gossip in the village, and the townspeople fought to be the first to greet any newcomer. In general, the older residents of Tadfield were quite concerned with ideas of respectability, and enjoyed judging whether or not the newcomer was the “right sort”. Which was why R.P. Tyler typically pounced on new neighbors just as they had begun to unpack their moving lorries. 

Every time a FOR SALE sign was taken down to be replaced with SOLD, the senior members of town established a betting pool regarding how long the newcomer would last in the village before they either became bored of its quaintness or were forcibly run out. Not that any member of the town would willingly admit to having purposely run someone out, of course. Even the most respectable citizen had to face the laws of polite society. You couldn’t just _say_ you didn’t like someone. But you could certainly make them feel it. 

Michael Godwin, proud president of the parent-teacher’s association at the primary school, had won every single betting pool over the last ten years. Except for one. No one had won that pool, yet. Newton Pulsifer owned the only surviving bet, not that anyone remembered that he had even placed one. Mr. Pulsifer was very forgettable. 

This information would have been helpful to Aziraphale because, as he turned on his kettle to have his first cup of tea in his new home, he might have known to prepare more than one cup. 

The doorbell rang. As Aziraphale opened it he was greeted by the guarded smiles of a handful of the village’s nosiest locals. The Tadfield Inquisition, as they were covertly known, greatly enjoyed startling newcomers. Gabriel said their reactions gave him insight into whether they were 'worthy of the town.' 

However, there were a few things about their new neighbor that the Inquisition might have liked to know before they started their reign of terror. For one, Aziraphale was not a man who was easily startled. It took much more than a few nosy neighbors to unsettle a man who’d occasionally had genuine mobsters come to shake him down at his old bookstore in Soho. 

For the second, he’d be damned if he were ever caught with his drawers down and guests at the door. Aziraphale was a master of the art of Hosting. 

He beamed at the welcome wagon, much to the shock and bemusement of his new neighbors. “Oh, how wonderful!” he exclaimed. “It's lovely to meet you all. Do come in. I’ll make some more tea.” 

Aziraphale herded all of his guests into his living room, which overflowed with boxes. They had to awkwardly squeeze themselves between the precariously stacked piles before settling onto the comfortable worn couches. 

“Sorry for the mess, I haven’t been able to unpack… well, at all,” Aziraphale said, not looking the least bit sorry. 

The people currently sitting in Aziraphale’s living room were the central members of town, and the best people with which to catch up on the latest gossip. Unsurprisingly, they were also the sort of people who most enjoyed getting into others’ business. 

Seated on a dusty ottoman was the aforementioned Michael Godwin, who prided herself on winning the annual Christmas baking competition every year, and who hosted, in her opinion, the best town gatherings. Her charcoal-colored pencil skirt rode up just above her knees as she crossed her legs in a prim posture. She looked like a woman who was not to be trifled with. 

Michael’s brother Gabriel was the local real estate agent—Aziraphale and Gabriel had met a few times already. Aziraphale had spent most of their (thankfully short) time together using his polished politeness to mask the fact that he thought Gabriel was a bit of a wanker. Gabriel was particularly proud of his immaculate garden, about which Aziraphale had been educated in great detail while Gabriel had shown Aziraphale his future house. Gabriel’s garden was so good, in fact, that it had won the annual Tadfield Gardening Showcase every year until… well... _he_ came. 

Next was Mr. Shadwell, a pensioner who immediately asked Aziraphale how many nipples he had. “Just two, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale said with perfect seriousness. Then he’d added cheerfully, “I knew a man in Morocco who only had one nipple, it was some kind of dreadful accident! But he made the most wonderful B’ssara.” 

Aziraphale graciously ignored Mr. Shadwell’s mutter of “Great Southern pansy.” 

Alongside Mr. Shadwell was the wonderful Madame Tracy, who Aziraphale took an immediate shine to. She was also retired, but read fortunes and held séances in her spare time. Aziraphale made a mental note to invite her over for tea soon. She was the only one of his visitors that didn’t seem to be treating this impromptu teatime as an interrogation. 

After all, Aziraphale was determined to make friends in the village, even if some of the neighbors didn’t seem so keen on him. He’d lived most of his life in Soho, London running an antique bookshop. He never made many friends growing up. As an adult he’d pretended he was content being by himself. Until one day, as he had been sitting in the faded kitchen of the apartment over his bookshop, he realized that he was dreadfully lonely. A month later he packed up his entire shop and moved all his stock into an online store so he could sell books from anywhere in the world. He’d taken a few months off to travel before settling on Tadfield as his new home. It seemed like the perfect little village where he could meet people and make new friends. 

“Who owns the house next door with the lovely garden?” Aziraphale asked his acquaintances. 

The room went dead silent as each person exchanged knowing glances. Finally, Michael said, “Don’t bother with Mr. Crowley, he isn’t the right sort.” 

“The right sort?” Aziraphale wondered. Judging from the way Mr. Tyler had looked down on his pigeons, and the general snobbiness of the people currently occupying his living room, Aziraphale thought that he might also not be considered the “right sort.” Which meant that he very much wanted to bother with Mr. Crowley. How could a man with such a gorgeous garden not make a good friend? 

“He has a huge bloody snake he takes with him everywhere.” 

“He drives far too fast through the village! He’s a menace.” 

“He wears sunglasses at all hours, the flash bastard.” 

“He’s just a bit... _odd,_ dear.” Madame Tracy said apologetically. 

“He’s not worth worrying about. He won’t be around for much longer.” Mr. Shadwell and Mr. Tyler exchanged a conspiratorial glance. 

“How long has he lived here?” The comments were doing perhaps the opposite of what they were intended to, because Aziraphale felt himself becoming more and more fascinated by this Crowley fellow. 

“Nearly five years.” Gabriel admitted with great reluctance. 

“That seems like an awfully long time to spend somewhere just to leave. Especially considering all the love and labor that must have gone into that garden.” Aziraphale said offhandedly while taking a sip of his tea. 

“Well!” Michael sputtered. “Why would someone like _that_ want to live in Tadfield?" 

“Have any of you asked him?” 

Madame Tracy was the only one who had the decency to look guilty. 

“He’s very unsociable,” Gabriel said, instead of answering Aziraphale’s question. 

Aziraphale hummed in acknowledgment but let the topic drop. He was now certain that he would be befriending Mr. Crowley. It seemed he was in need of a true friend as much as Aziraphale was. 

⁂


	2. The Nasty Neighbor

⁂

Aziraphale spent most of the next few days unpacking his books. The walls of his living room were lined floor-to-ceiling with antique oak bookshelves. He planned to convert the second guest bedroom into an additional book storage room, as well as an office that he could ship books from. As he unpacked, Aziraphale mulled over the meeting with his neighbors. They hadn’t seemed terribly friendly. There had to be something he could do to impress them and get to know them all a little better. 

Why not a garden party? He could host practically the whole village. Perhaps he would invite over that mysterious Mr. Crowley. Aziraphale had often found himself glancing at the house next door, hoping to catch a peek at his new neighbor. 

After another long day, he fell into his newly-made queen-size bed. Tomorrow, he decided, he’d take a well-needed break and go to the pub Mr. Tyler had suggested. 

⁂

The Bull and Fiddle was cozy, sunlit, and smelled a little like cooked beef and beer. Altogether just what a proper English pub should be. 

A young woman in an electric blue suit jacket was deep in her reading. A patchy book with loose sheafs of paper seemed to be falling apart every which way in front of her. She looked deep in concentration. She was about the only person in the room who wasn’t dozing off into a glass. 

“Excuse me, miss?” 

She held out a decisive finger in the traditional gesture of _shh._ Startled, the interruptor clammed up. 

Upon finishing the page, she clapped the book shut and turned to face him. Between her sharp eyes and her thick circular glasses, she had an overall owlish appearance. “Can I help you?” 

A middle aged man with fair-white hair and a sheepish sort of face met her gaze with an understated confidence. “I do hope I’m not interrupting. I just wanted to ask, could I see that book you have there?” 

“Why?” 

“Oh, it’s just that I’m a bookbinder by trade, among other things.” With a watchful eye, she slid the copy towards him. He clucked with disappointment at the condition of it. The cover was indeed loose from the spine, and the threads of some of the signatures were severed and hanging limp. “Dear me. First edition, is she?” She nodded. “Well, if you’re ever of a mind to have her repaired, you can drop her off at my cottage. I’ll see to her, free of charge. She clearly means a lot to you.” He set the book back down in front of the woman. “But where are my manners? It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. ?” 

“Anathema. Device,” she added as an afterthought, giving him a rare smile. “And you are?” 

“Aziraphale Fell. I’ve just moved here.” 

She couldn’t repress a small grin. “I see your parents have also blessed you with an old—” 

“—family name,” they finished simultaneously, and laughed. 

“You’re on the money,” Aziraphale answered. “Are you a local?” 

“Of a sort. I moved to Tadfield a few years ago.” She leaned in as if she planned to entrust him with a secret. “I’m a witch, and I needed a covert place to hone my craft.” 

“Is that so?” Aziraphale seemed no more surprised than if he’d met someone with the uncommon but faintly romantic career of professional mountain-climbing. “And has it suited you?” 

“Like you wouldn’t believe! The town's situated at the crossroads of a couple of ancient ley lines. It’s a perfect place to practice arcane arts.” 

Aziraphale took the bar stool beside her. “I’m rather fond of the study of magicks, myself. But only from a scholarly perspective, I’m afraid! I’ve collected a number of tomes on occult practice from around the world.” 

“Oh, really?” She considered this. “Do you ever lend them out?” 

“Certainly! I’d be happy to show them to you sometime.” 

Despite having the outward appearance of a sort of run-down English professor, and the compulsive smile of someone with severe social anxiety, this Mr. Fell had a blinding fire in his eyes. An odd man, indeed. “Are you here on holiday?” Anathema queried. 

“Just moved in. Seven twenty-one Hogsback Lane,” he recited, like it was a key line of a rather charming narrative poem he was going to write about his life. 

That was right, Newt had mentioned something about a new neighbor moving to town. “How are you liking it so far?” 

“It seems to me people in town are a little wary of new neighbors. I’ve only just survived what was either the welcoming committee or the judge, jury, and executioners.” He rubbed his throat as if he’d barely escaped a guillotine. 

“Don’t you let them get to you,” she advised. “They try to scare everyone off at first. Let them get used to you, and they’ll come to accept you, quirks and all. Eventually.” 

“I do hope so,” he sighed. “Oh, who _is_ that?” He tugged Anathema’s shirt sleeve, unable to contain his curiosity. 

The yet-unnamed man had long ginger hair and black sunglasses with sturdy frames. Though it was very hot out, he was wearing thick black gloves, and was carrying a wicker basket. There was decided set to his jaw that read as _do-not-fuck-with-me._ And his personal style was positively Gothic. A black waistcoat and undershirt, black skinny jeans, heavy leather boots. A small pair of silver crosses hung from his ears. 

“That’s Anthony,” Anathema said dismissively. “Not a witch, just dresses like one. He’s lived here for years but he’s not very friendly. Most people don’t bother with him.” 

“Anthony what?” He had a suspicion. 

“Crowley, the one and only.” They unashamedly appraised the lean figure through the pub window. “He doesn’t have any family that I know of. I don’t think it’s his real name, he’s probably Mafia or something. Kids in town call him ‘the Crow.’” 

He clapped his hands like a delighted child. “Gabriel and the others were just telling me about him! He lives next door to mine. Oh, you _must_ introduce us properly.” He was halfway out the door before Anathema could say no. 

⁂

Crowley looked up as he was accosted by an unfamiliar, overexcited blond man and that witch woman. He braced himself for what looked to be an exhausting encounter. 

“Hello!” The blond was all smiles, offering his hand for a shake. He looked like a cartoon illustration from a book entitled “How to Make New Friends.” (Dear reader: this was, in fact, one of the many books Aziraphale had read in order to prepare him for his new life.) 

“Hi.” Crowley didn’t shake. 

“I’m Aziraphale Fell. I just moved into the cottage next door.” (The previous four residents of 721 Hogsback Lane had moved away for the following stated reasons: Loud music at all hours. Witchery. Tired of his yelling. Snake man. All in all, in a mere five years, Crowley had rid the town of new residents more efficiently than the collective Tadfield Inquisition had done during their entire run.) “I’ve just met Miss Device, here.” The new neighbor steered Anathema in front of him like a human shield. “She’s just been telling me how wonderful you are!” _She did no such thing,_ Crowley thought. “I’m so excited to finally meet you.” 

“Cheers to that.” _It’ll take me a week to break him. Tops._ Crowley privately regretted not taking up a bet against the new neighbor this round. Not that he’d actually been invited to join the betting pool, of course. But this was going to be a piece of cake. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you around, then.” He turned on his heel and resumed marching towards his destination, the local plant nursery. 

“I’m looking forward to it!” what’s-his-name called after him. Crowley rolled his eyes and continued on his way. 

⁂

Aziraphale continued to catch glimpses of Mr. Crowley as the days passed, but was unable to say hello again. He was much too busy unpacking books and setting up for his bookselling business. Although in fairness, it was the _reading_ of the books that took up most of his time. He would often find himself sitting amongst stacks of packed boxes rereading a forgotten favorite into the wee hours of the night. 

Not only had Aziraphale seen Mr. Crowley around, he’d also heard him. Often. Crowley liked to play loud music right through the night and into the early morning. Aziraphale found that the music went very well with his unplanned bouts of reading! He didn’t even have to turn on his record player for background noise. 

One afternoon, he’d heard Mr. Crowley yelling and had cautiously peeked out his kitchen window to ensure that the man was okay. It turned out that Mr. Crowley enjoyed talking to his plants. Aziraphale found it to be quite sweet, if he ignored the fact that Mr. Crowley actually shouted rather than talked to his plants. _“I want to see you all at attention tomorrow morning!”_ he’d howled as he flung water from his watering can haphazardly all over the place. _“Disobedience will not be tolerated!”_ Aziraphale was delighted to find that all his new neighbors were as eccentric as he’d hoped. Life would be awfully boring if he were the only strange one around. 

⁂

On Tuesday, Anathema went to Aziraphale’s cottage to have some tea and to drop off her book for repair. She greatly enjoyed his company—with him, one could easily talk about anything from ancient history to modern culture. They had been discussing the witch burnings of the 1700s and Anathema's familial connections to them when a loud crash of broken pottery interrupted them. Anathema flinched and nearly dropped her teacup. 

“What was _that?”_ She squinted out the kitchen window, looking for the culprit. 

“Oh, that’s just Mr. Crowley. He seems to enjoy smashing things for fun.” Aziraphale sipped his tea serenely. “I’ve read that it can be very therapeutic.” 

“You’re not bothered by the noise?” Anathema asked, incredulous. 

“Not at all! I rather enjoy a bit of noise. It reminds me of my time living in Soho. There was so much noise happening all hours of the day there. I think I would rather miss the cacophony if it wasn’t for Mr. Crowley’s liveliness.” 

Anathema was dumbfounded. _I guess Anthony Crowley has finally met his match._

⁂

Aziraphale was in his back garden feeding his pigeons when he heard a soft thump and the shaking of leaves and branches. He glanced over to see a pile of discarded flowers that seemed to have been summarily uprooted and thrown over the wall he shared with Mr. Crowley. Aziraphale poked his head over the wall to ask about the plants, but Mr. Crowley was nowhere to be found. 

Oh, well. He shrugged and began sorting through the flowers. They were all healthy and bright with only a few imperfections. Not that he minded imperfections! They made things unique. Aziraphale decided he would replant in his own garden any flowers that still had some root left. The rest would go into a vase and make a lovely centerpiece for his dining room table. 

⁂

This particular shivery, moonlit evening, Aziraphale was up late re-reading The Picture of Dorian Gray. He’d had a soft spot for Wilde ever since he was a teenager. 

“There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about," he quoted, and chuckled in recognition. Not that he really believed all press was good press. He much preferred being liked to being loathed. But he was intimately familiar with what it felt like to be forgotten. It would be far better if his new neighbors found plenty of reasons to gossip about him often, rather than ignore him. 

He was utterly absorbed in his reading until he was distracted by odd noises coming from next door. It didn’t sound like the usual music, and Crowley didn’t garden at night. It sounded like Mr. Crowley was... chanting? Aziraphale parted the curtains of his bedroom window to see which new antics his eccentric neighbor was trying out. 

It took Aziraphale a moment to take in the whole scene before he could piece together what was happening. Crowley was pacing around a white painted circle filled with candles, chanting unintelligible monotonous phrases and waving a handful of smoking twigs. The candles inside the circle seemed to be placed in some kind of pattern that Aziraphale couldn’t parse. There was a distinct smell of barbecue, probably from the small campfire at the center of the circle, over which a chunk of meat rested on a makeshift spit. 

Anathema had said that Crowley wasn’t a witch. Perhaps Mr. Crowley had decided to try out a new hobby? Aziraphale could hardly fault the man. One summer, when Aziraphale was younger, he’d taken up the gavotte as a way to pass the long summer evenings before he bought his bookstore. Desperate days. 

In his nightshirt and slippers, he padded out to the garden and leaned over the wall. “Sorry to drop in!” 

Crowley looked at him, then continued walking in a circle around his makeshift shrine. 

“Are you working on some kind of spiritual project?” 

“Can’t talk,” he hissed. “Busy communing with creatures of darkness.” 

“Sounds like jolly good fun!” he laughed. “Is that your dinner?” He pointed at the smouldering roast. 

Crowley stopped his pacing, looking like he’d been caught out. “It’s my, um, blood sacrifice.” 

“Well, if you do get peckish, stop by the cottage for a snack,” he encouraged. “Oh, by the way? If you’re planning to summon anything, you might put up a circle of salt around your runes there. I hear it does wonders to prevent unintentional demonic possessions, or one’s accidentally setting off the End-of-Days. Toodle-oo!” With that, he waved goodbye, popped back into his cottage and pulled the blinds. 

⁂

Now that his house was mostly unpacked, Aziraphale began planning for the Great Garden Party. He hand-delivered cards to all the village locals he had met so far, and mailed invitations to everyone he hadn’t had the chance to meet yet. Mr. Crowley was the last on his list, but Aziraphale was determined to invite him in person. So when Aziraphale saw Mr. Crowley’s gleaming Bentley pulling up that evening, he hurried over to deliver the invitation. 

He leaned over the front garden fence, where Crowley was pulling up weeds like they’d personally insulted his mother. “Good afternoon, Anthony—May I call you Anthony?” 

His pale cheeks colored ever so slightly. “You may not.” 

“Ah,” replied Aziraphale, who was recalculating his trajectory. “My sincere apologies, Mr. Crowley.” 

_“Just_ Crowley,” he huffed.

“Right.” They regarded each other in silence. Crowley always wore sunglasses while working in his garden, Aziraphale had noticed. Perhaps he had sensitive eyes. “I, er—” he fished in his coat pocket, “wanted to give you this.” He handed over a crisp, cream-colored card with embossing. It read: 

 

_A.Z. Fell’s Garden Party_

_All are welcome. Please bring a friend!_

_721 E Hogsback Lane_

_Saturday afternoon. June 22._

 

Crowley took it with marked reluctance. “I don’t have any friends.” 

“Oh, that’s all right,” Aziraphale said, trying to sound breezy. “Perhaps you could make some new friends at the party! That’s what I’ll be doing.” 

He hummed a note of disinterest. “What’s the Z for.” 

“Hm? Oh. Zephyr. Old family name, I believe.” 

Crowley made a gibberish sound that might have been acknowledgement. “Can I bring my pet?” 

“Sure. Some sort of little dog, or—?” 

A good-sized red and white snake emerged from Crowley’s unbuttoned shirt front. “Say hello, love,” he murmured. “She’s shy,” he added, by way of explanation, as the serpent coiled around his outstretched wrist. _So, that’s the snake everyone was talking about,_ Aziraphale thought. 

To his credit, Aziraphale was only a little frightened. “Ah. What’s her name, then?” 

“Crawly.” 

“An inspired name!” The snake flickered her tongue toward him. “Well, then. It’s been a pleasure chatting with you, Crowley and Miss Crawly. I do hope I’ll see you both at the party?” 

Crowley looked like he might actually consider the invitation. “Maybe.” 

“Splendid!” He gave the strange pair a respectful nod and hurried back home. 

⁂

“He’s too _perfect,”_ Crowley grumbled into his tea cup. 

“Who's too perfect?” Newt asked. To most of the village, the sight of Newton Pulsifer and Anthony J. Crowley drinking tea together at Crowley’s house would have been most intriguing gossip. But because most people in the village hardly remembered that Newt lived in Tadfield, no one had ever noticed that Crowley wasn’t a complete 'lone wolf'. He did have one friend, with whom he met for tea every Wednesday afternoon. 

_“Aziraphale.”_ Crowley said the name like it burned his tongue. 

“If you’d heard the rumours Michael and Gabriel have been spreading about him, he wouldn’t sound perfect at all.” As the sole bartender in town, Newt knew more about the village gossip than even Michael Godwin, but he only ever shared the gossip he heard with Crowley. And sometimes Anathema. 

“Fuck Michael and Gabriel. They don’t know anything. I’ve been living next door to him for over two weeks now. He’s practically an _angel.”_ Crowley glared in the direction of Aziraphale’s disgustingly lovely cottage. 

“Anathema likes him. He’s repairing one of her favorite books for free.” 

“Of course he is.” Crowley said bitterly. 

“And Madame Tracy thinks he’s 'just the most wonderful cherub’.” Newt added. 

Crowley grunted in reply and wished he’d put some whiskey in his tea. “Y’know,” he began after a moment, “I’ve tried everything I could think of to be the most awful neighbor imaginable. I even did some fake witch-y shit to scare him off, but I think he could tell I was bullshitting him. And he hasn’t even complained about it once, the self-righteous bastard! All _he’s_ done is invite me over to his bloody garden party.” 

“Are you going to go?” Newt asked. “Anathema and I are going. I’m looking forward to it, I haven’t met him yet.” 

“I doubt it. Why should I give up a perfectly good Saturday to hang out with all of my shitty neighbors who hate me?” 

“It doesn’t sound like Aziraphale hates you.” Newt said offhand. 

No. Much to Crowley’s dismay, it didn’t seem like Aziraphale hated him at all. Mr. Freeman, who’d barely made it six months living in what was now Aziraphale’s cottage, used to scream at Crowley all the time just for the loud music. Aziraphale had yet to complain. He’d even replanted the subpar sunflowers Crowley had chucked over their joining wall. They were now growing merrily over on Aziraphale’s side. Spoiled lazy bastards. He’d yelled extra hard at his own plants to make sure they didn’t get any ideas. 

“He’s probably trying out for some citizenship award,” Crowley scowled. “Good Samaritan Neighbor of the Year, or something. That’s why he’s got to be nice to me.” 

Newt snorted. “In this town? He’d be better off trying to become unicycling champion of Great Britain.” 

Newton had a point. Tadfield was a town not inclined to be kind to the kind, to put it mildly. “I might go, just to see what his deal is,” Crowley said. Maybe a touch of his personal brand of surly spookiness would be what it took to send Aziraphale over the edge and out of Tadfield for good. 

⁂


	3. The Great Garden Party

⁂

The day of the garden party came. Aziraphale was meticulously dusting his bookshelves with a feather duster and white gloved hands. It wouldn’t do for anyone to catch allergies at his cottage. Besides, he was rather proud of his books and wanted them to look their best. 

He heard a creak that he attributed to the wind pushing the door around. Whistling to himself, he was laying out the place settings (a vintage set of china gifted him by his grandmother) when a voice suddenly rang in his ear. 

“Is this a bad time?” 

“Ah!” Aziraphale yelped, clutching his chest. He nearly dropped the plate on the floor. Crowley was leaning over him with his snake draped around his shoulders. A real boa, rather than a feather one. He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses, and Aziraphale could see his eyes were a startling shade of yellow-green. Chartreuse, even. “Oh, you startled me.” 

“Sorry,” his guest said, not looking very apologetic. 

“Only,” he took a surreptitious glance at his wristwatch, “I didn’t expect anyone to arrive this early.” _12:01._ A very literal interpretation of ‘after noon.’ “Please, take a seat!” he smiled, regaining his footing. “I hope you won’t mind while I continue to prepare for the party.” 

“Not at all,” his neighbor replied with exaggerated formality. It almost sounded as if Crowley was mocking him. Aziraphale hoped this wasn’t the case. 

The oven beeped and Aziraphale hurried towards it. “Banana bread?” he offered Crowley, with all the warmth he could muster. He pulled it out of the oven and the whole cottage smelled of it. 

“Banana,” Crowley muttered under his breath. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that?” He handed Crowley a slice of fresh bread on a plate, dismissing the mental images of his neighbor burning his tongue on the hot food. Not even Anthony Crowley could get under his skin today. 

Crowley broke off a morsel of the bread and held it up for his snake to smell. She flicked her tongue at it then turned away in disinterest. He popped it into his mouth. “That’s really good!” he exclaimed, then smacked a hand over his mouth like he’d just said something he shouldn’t have. 

Aziraphale lit up. “You do like it, then? I didn’t put too much sugar in?” 

“It’s perfect,” he admitted. Perfect like this immaculate cottage, the stupid, spotless, jovial little man in front of him. _Nobody_ could pull off white trousers, and here Aziraphale was doing it anyway. Unbelievable. 

“So,” Aziraphale tried, sitting across from Crowley on the sofa. “You like snakes?” 

“Yup.” He did not elaborate. 

“Uh,” Aziraphale struggled. He was used to having to force small talk with reluctant strangers, but this was a new level. “I have to say, I’m incredibly impressed with your garden. What’s your secret?” 

“Strict discipline.” 

“Oh, I see!” He smiled with understanding. “You must get up at the same time each morning, spend the same number of hours weeding and watering...” 

“Not for me,” Crowley interrupted. “For the plants.” 

Aziraphale was baffled. “Uh huh.” The bell rang. “More guests! Best get a wiggle on.” He raced over to open it. 

‘Wiggle on?’ Crowley mouthed at Aziraphale’s retreating figure. 

It was Madame Tracy and Shadwell. Tracy graciously accepted Aziraphale’s kiss on the cheek and got rather giggly. Shadwell entered as if the entire cottage could be booby-trapped with falling nets and land mines. 

“Very sorry for being so early, dear! Mr. Shadwell insisted that he have time to ‘scope out’ the place.” Tracy handed him a bottle of white wine wrapped with a bow. 

“Oh, how kind! Thank you.” He stowed it safely in a cupboard. “You’re more than welcome to have a look around. Scope away!” he said, with an exaggerated little gesture like ‘Onward!’ 

Shadwell took him up on the offer. He nosed around the corners like a detective in a melodrama, carefully testing each floorboard with a toe, as if determining which ones would creak. Then he spotted Crowley, who gave him a sarcastic half-wave. 

“FIEND!” Shadwell cried, brandishing a forefinger. “Witches an’ demons, he that consorts with ‘em will be cursed as well!” 

Tracy took him by the arm. “Stop being such an old silly. We’re guests in nice Mr. Fell’s home.” 

Aziraphale stepped between Crowley and his antagonist. “Now then. I think we can all agree to get along for the time being? I’ve just been offering good Mr. Crowley some of this banana bread. Perhaps you’d care to try some?” 

Shadwell grumbled. “Have yeh got any condensed milk, lad.” 

“I think I might do. Here, let me rustle some up.” He led Shadwell away into the kitchen. 

“I _am_ sorry for his behavior,” Tracy murmured to Crowley, who had picked up one of Aziraphale’s more obscure coffee-table books ( _Best of Sixteenth-Century Pocket Watches_ ) and was thumbing through it. 

“No harm done, I’m sure.” 

“He’s been a real beast lately,” she sighed, rubbing at her knees and fidgeting. “All this talk about ghouls and evil spirits—it’s ridiculous, of course.” She gave Crowley a side-eye as if she wasn't entirely certain he wouldn’t cast a curse on her for her husband’s bad behavior. 

There were more guests at the door. Aziraphale greeted Anathema. “And this is my boyfriend, Newt.” The rather geeky young man gave him a wavering handshake. Aziraphale thought the couple were about as well matched as an elegant stiletto heel and a sensible cotton sock, but he supposed opposites were known to attract. 

“Oh, hey, Anthony!” Newt waved enthusiastically at Crowley, who gave him a look that could quell death, but who managed a stifled ‘hi’ in return. 

The room fell into a hush. To their knowledge, nobody had ever greeted Crowley so informally and with so much ease. And it was _Newton Pulsifer,_ of all people. The man who couldn’t so much as make eye contact with a stranger without tripping over himself, talking to the nefarious _Anthony J. Crowley_ like he was an old rugby mate from school. 

And then he amended, “and, uh, hi to the rest of you all?” and his rapt audience lost interest. Newt had that effect on people. 

Next in the lineup were: Gabriel and Michael, bearing Michael’s pristinely presented Summer Tart and looks of incredibly nasty smugness; Linda Dorne, a small, pale woman with a pinched face; Arthur and Deirdre Young, with their son Adam and his gaggle of incredibly rowdy friends; R. P. Tyler, whose eyes were waterier and more shrewd than usual, Leslie and Maud Simmons, the sort of helplessly-in-love married couple you only saw on TV shows; and Mary Hodges, a local who posited herself as an Incredibly Shrewd Businesswoman. One by one they traipsed out to the garden, curiosity and judging eyes in tow. 

Aziraphale made a tally on his fingers. “All right! Everyone here?” There was a murmur of assent from the crowd. “Please, to your seats!” Name placards for each potential guest had been written in ornate calligraphy. Sequestered at the first table were Michael and Gabriel Godwin, R.P. Tyler, and Linda Dorne. At the second sat Mary Hodges, Deirdre and Arthur Young, and Leslie and Maud Simmons. Sitting at table three were Newton Pulsifer, Anathema Device, Tracy and Shadwell, and Anthony Crowley. Adam and his gaggle of friends were seated at the much smaller fourth table. 

There came an expectant hush. “I’d just like to say, um.” Aziraphale felt his chest tighten up with all eyes on him. It had been a long time since he’d done any sort of public speaking. He cleared his throat and continued, “I really appreciate you all finding the time to come here today, and I hope we can leave here better friends than when we started. I won’t delay our meal any longer, so... let’s eat!” 

⁂

Aziraphale had made a proper English afternoon tea. Each table had its own tiered serving tray filled with finger sandwiches, little cakes, biscuits, and French macarons. Their host brought out hot tea to each table and hovered about, inquiring into how they were enjoying their meals. It was sort of exhausting, actually, which was what Michael remarked to her brother upon tucking in. “Just look at the state of this silverware,” she griped. (It was real silver, and it had a bit of tarnish on it, despite Aziraphale’s best efforts.) 

“Paper napkins?” Gabriel chortled. “What is this, an American ‘barbecue’? Should we break out the grill?” 

Shadwell sidled over, eager to share in the gossip. “He isn’t a right-headed sort of fellow, is he?” 

“I’ll say.” Linda pulled a face. “This tea isn’t fully steeped, and it’s half-cold.” (It wasn’t, but she purported to be an expert in tea etiquette, and nobody was about to cross her.) 

“And the sort of friends he keeps,” Tyler muttered, eyes narrow. “He won’t make much of an impression here if he keeps spending time with the likes of this lot.” 

“Aye!” Shadwell added sagely. “Mr. Fell may no’ be a bad young man, exactly. But that Crowley is the devil’s work, make no mistake.” 

Ordinarily the other four would make fun of Shadwell: his accent, his eccentric behaviors, his general state of unkempt-ness. But at this moment he was fueling their fire, and he would make a fine ally for the time being. 

⁂

Aziraphale had returned inside to refill the teapot when he noticed Anathema and Adam’s friend, Pepper, if he remembered correctly, locked into an intent discussion. 

“Well, _my_ mum says that the patriarchy is a construct that only serves the needs of capitalism.” 

“Your mum sounds like a very smart lady,” Anathema smiled. “She works over at Oxford University, doesn’t she?” 

“She IS super smart. She’s a professor of Soci Ology.” She enunciated each half of the word with a proud lift of her chin. 

“Oh! She wouldn’t happen to be Dr. West?” 

“Yeah, that’s her.” 

“I do know your mum! She’s one of the administrators of my Master’s program.” 

Pepper yelped, her face a comical mask of astonishment. “You go to university? I thought you were a witch!” 

“I can be both,” Anathema replied with a mysterious wink. 

Aziraphale had set down his teakettle, enthralled with their conversation. “Excuse me, Miss Anathema, Miss West?” They acknowledged him, although with a certain cautiousness from Pepper. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. It sounded like you’re rather interested in feminism?” he asked Pepper.

“Yeah, I guess so.” She crossed her arms. 

“Ah! I just thought—hang on a moment.” He rummaged through a few of his shelves and emerged triumphant with a small stack of texts. “Would you like to take a look at these?” 

Anathema’s eyes grew wide. “Are those first editions?!” 

“Some of them!” he said brightly. “I do think the text is more important than the wrapping it comes in, in this case.” 

Pepper’s puzzled frown softened into curiosity as she skimmed through the pages. 

“You know,” Anathema mused, “you could practically open a full library with all these texts. Or, what about a book club?” 

Aziraphale grinned. “Oh, that’s brilliant! I can’t believe I never thought of it. Why don't we start one here? The 'Tadfield Readers' Association', or something.” 

Pepper raised her hand to interject, not looking up from the page. “If I come over here to talk about books or whatever, can I have some more banana bread?” 

“I certainly think some tea and baked goods would be in order.” 

“Then I’ll do it.” 

“I’m in as well!” Anathema declared. 

“Wonderful! We’ll have meetings on, say, Thursday afternoons?” 

"Works for me," his newly-formed associates chimed. 

⁂

“Pass a scone over, would you, Deirdre?” 

She handed him the tray but clucked disapprovingly. “Really, Arthur, you must save some for the others.” 

“ ‘S going to go to waste otherwise,” he argued with a mouth full of crumbs. 

“I don’t think there’ll be a glut of leftovers, dear.” Indeed, the endless trays of tea-cakes were dwindling at an alarming rate. 

Leslie and Maud exchanged glances from the other side of the table. “Pardon us, but is that your son, over there?” They gestured toward the cupidic curly-haired boy who was wrestling with his dog in the grass like something out of a picture postcard. 

“He is indeed,” Arthur said, with more than a hint of pride ruffling his moustaches. 

“Oh!” said Maud excitedly. “We were wondering if you could give us—” 

“—any bit of advice?” Leslie finished for her. “You see,” 

“we’re expecting!!” they finished in unison. Maud patted her belly, beaming from ear to ear. 

Arthur inhaled his tea and coughed into his teacup. “Oh, how nice for you. I'm afraid I'm not one for parenting advice.” 

“Why ever not? Your family is just _perfect_ ,” Maud gushed. 

Deirdre barely restrained herself from spraying her tea across the table. Arthur remained rather red-faced. 

“How did you ever manage to raise a son who’s so well-behaved?” Leslie queried. 

This was the last straw for Arthur. “Well-behaved. _Right.”_ The Youngs excused themselves from the table and went away to spike their teacups in private. 

⁂

The children were themselves embroiled in a fierce debate, this time regarding the mysterious stranger whose cottage garden they were now occupying. 

Pepper crossed her arms. “Actually, he’s nice. He gave me this cool book. Smart, too. Bet he knows loads of stuff you don’t.” 

Adam scoffed. “ _Too_ smart, probably. What if he’s a teacher?” The Them wrinkled their noses. Teachers were un-people, like parents, if parents never took you to the zoo or made you dinner, but instead only ever made you do boring sums and tried to get you to mind your manners. 

Wensleydale, ever practical-minded, offered a solution. “Actually, what if we asked him?” 

They looked to Adam for direction. “Great idea,” he said. “Gather the troops.” 

They marched straight for Mr. Fell, who was offering Maud some finicky little toothpicked things off a tray. 

“Are you a teacher?” Adam demanded to know. 

“We won’t be mad at you, if you are,” Brian amended. “Only we’ve never seen you at the school, and we want to know if you’re going to be our teacher in the fall.” 

“We’re going to be Year 7!” Wensley said with pride. 

“Secondary school?” Mr. Fell looked impressed. “You all strike me as very grown up. But I’m not a teacher, I’m afraid. I sell books.” 

“See, I told you!” Pepper said triumphantly to her friends. She then addressed Fell directly. “I told them you weren’t any teacher, and that you knew a lot about different things.” 

He laughed. “I suppose that’s an accurate description of myself. How are you all enjoying the party?” 

“It’s okay,” was Adam’s generous reply. 

“Don’t like the sandwiches, though.” Brian made a face. 

“I like them!” Wensley chirped. “Cream cheese and cucumber is my favorite.” 

Aziraphale hmm’ed thoughtfully. “How would you all like to be the first to try the biscuits from my new recipe? It might make up for the sandwiches.” 

They nodded enthusiastically and reached for the plate he offered. “Wow, these are great!” Pepper shouted. Impressive, from a girl whose compliments were nearly always begrudging. 

“Yeah, these are ‘mazing,” Adam agreed. Brian snuck a second helping. 

“I’m glad you like them!” 

“You know,” Adam mulled it over through a mouthful of crumbs, “we’ve been really needin’ an evil wizard for our game. We told Pepper she’d have to be the evil wizard this time, only she really wants to be a knight.” Pepper nodded with a fierce determination. “Maybe... you could be the evil wizard instead?” 

“I certainly would like to be! I’m afraid I don’t have a great beard or a magic wand or anything.” Aziraphale patted his bare chin in dismay. 

“Well, here,” Brian improvised, grabbing a largish fallen stick from off the ground. “This can be your Staff of Darkness.” 

⁂

“And that... _awful_ snake,” said Tyler, stopping just short of ‘bloody awful,’ although that’s what he had meant. 

Linda flicked at her blonde bangs with a supercilious sneer. “On the noise complaints alone, we ought to be able to force him to foreclose.” 

“I’ve been trying to ask the council to issue a noise abatement order on 722 Hogsback Lane for the last year now,” Michael sighed. Among her other hobbies, Michael was a member of the South Oxfordshire District Council. “Perhaps if our newest neighbor were to make a complaint about him, it would add some weight to our argument.” 

“I mean, if you think about it, it’s absolutely unfortunate that dear Mr. Fell has accidentally come into association with such a man.” Gabriel pulled a grimace that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a sad clown. 

“Maybe... you could do something about it? Stop him from fraternizin’, I mean?” Shadwell hinted with his usual level of subtlety. 

Michael arched an eyebrow and crumbled a teacake between her fingertips. “I _do_ think we ought to do something about it, Gabriel. Here we have a relatively genial, if uncultured, new neighbor and I’d hate to see him tarnished by Crowley’s... _reputation.”_

“So it’s settled, then.” Gabriel and Michael stood from their doily-covered party table, straightened their respective suit jackets, and marched off to find their host. 

⁂

Newt rediscovered Anathema in the living room. She looked out of the sunny front window with tranquility gilding her features. It was moments like these that Newt fell in love with her all over again. 

“Pleasant afternoon, isn’t it?” 

She grinned, and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Better in here than out there with those ‘buggers.’” 

He loved when she tried to use British slang. “They are rather awful, aren’t they.” He sat in the faded armchair beside her and set his tea down on the windowsill. 

“I haven’t known this guy that long, but he’s head and shoulders above those snipey bastards. Guaranteed.” She stirred her cup absentmindedly. “You know, he really took a shine to your friend Crowley the other day. Wouldn’t shut up about him, actually. Dragged me out in the blazing heat just so I could introduce him.” 

Newt lit up. “You know, Anthony was awful excited about him as well. Kept going on about how ‘perfect’ and ‘wonderful’ he was. I’ve never heard of him going to a party, ever. Now look at him.” Though Mary Hodges was chattering nonstop in his ear, Crowley and his dark glasses were fixated on Aziraphale. The blond man was now using a stick to fence with the Them, brandishing it as if he could summon down a storm from the heavens. Newt got the kind of lightbulb expression he only got when he was having a very silly idea. “You don’t suppose...” 

Anathema caught on to what he was thinking. They’d known each other long enough that the instances of their having full verbal conversations were mostly for the benefit of other people. The rest of the time, they skipped steps. “I don’t know. It could be risky.” 

He held up his hands. “I’m not saying go crazy! Just a little friendly encouragement and maybe a nudge here or there?” 

Anathema looked again at the small smile playing on Crowley’s face. “I’ll think about it.” 

⁂

Aziraphale was stumbling around the garden with a white scarf tied over his eyes. He held the gnarled stick out at arms’ length, waving it around gingerly as if worried the staff could catch against some of his decorations and knock them over. “I am the great wizard Azor!” he bellowed. “Fear my dark magicks and my mighty staff of flames!” 

“YAAARGH!” he heard Pepper charge at him from the left. He held the stick up just in time to block the strike of her wooden sword. “En garde, o wicked one!” she cried. 

“Actually, I’m going to do good magic so your flames can’t hurt her!” Wensley announced over the din. “WHOOSH! Pepper, hold out your hand!” She did. “Now you have a magic shield in front of you!” 

“Agh!” Azor Fell groused. “Foiled again!” 

There came a rustling of grass from his right. “‘Tis the great archer Brian the Eaglesight! He nocks an arrow and fires it at the evil warlock!” 

“The arrow flies true, and is embedded straight in the wizard’s heart!” Adam narrated. 

“Agony!” the wizard cried, sinking to his knees. His hand was pressed to the left side of his linen jacket as though staunching this mortal wound. “Oh, how quickly I am defeated!” 

“Serves you right for being wicked and stuff.” 

“Three cheers for the Knights of the Round Table!” Pepper suggested, sword to the sky, and the others seconded her with ‘hip hip, hooray!’ 

The scarf was ripped from Aziraphale’s eyes and someone pulled him to his feet and spun him around. Only, wasn't his erstwhile conquerors he faced, but Gabriel and Michael, looking incredibly stern. 

“Aziraphale, we must talk to you,” said the brother, who laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Together, they looked like a pair of silky cats ganging up on a frightened bird. 

The Them watched the intruders behind Aziraphale’s back, sticking out their tongues and thumbing their noses at the Godwins when they noticed the handsomely dressed pair weren’t paying any attention to them. “Let’s go find some better props for our game,” Adam whispered to his comrades. “I bet the Crow has a load of old witch's tools at his house.” 

“Ah, I’m afraid I’m a bit busy at the moment. I’m sure we’ll have time to talk before the party’s over?” Aziraphale leaned over with his hands on his knees, slightly winded from the unaccustomed exertion. 

“I’m afraid it’s most urgent,” Michael said, fixing him with a stare that meant business. Of some kind. The siblings frog-marched him into the kitchen. He looked helplessly at Newt and Anathema as he passed them. Mr. Crowley, following close behind, made a beeline for Newt. He sat on the armchair next to Anathema with his knobby knees pinned closely together and deposited the snake Crawly on the sofa, where she curled up obediently in a scaly pile. Aziraphale wanted very much to sit with them, rather than being held for questioning (or whatever they were about to do to him) by his less congenial neighbors. 

Michael and Gabriel cornered him between the pots-and-pans rack and the kitchen sink. Aziraphale puffed out his chest, trying to reclaim his personal space. “I’m afraid I don’t know what all this is about, but can it wait? You see, I’ve lots of guests here to entertain...” 

“Actually,” Michael quirked a humorless smile. “It’s sort of about that.” 

“You see,” Gabriel continued for her, “I think there are some implicit rules about our village life that you’re,” he squeezed Aziraphale’s shoulder like a vise, “not quite getting.” 

“For instance, we can’t just have _all sorts_ of people mixing together.” 

Aziraphale’s lips pursed, eyes ablaze with fury, but he kept his voice deadly calm. “I am sure I don’t understand what you’re implying.” 

“Well,” Michael elaborated. “There are the ‘social darlings’ of Tadfield, and then there are the... less favored.” 

“Someone like,” Gabriel hissed, “ _Anthony Crowley,_ for example.” 

Aziraphale’s stare was ice-cold. “And what do you expect me to do with this information?” 

A bloodcurdling scream cut through their conversation. Schutzi the dog began growling and barking like the end was nigh. The pigeons chattered and clucked in pure terror. 

Crowley stood up, cast around as if looking for something, then vaulted over the coffee table in his way. “Crawly!” he shrieked, running into Aziraphale’s backyard. 

Aziraphale forced his way past the siblings and chased after him. “What the devil—?” 

Linda Dorne was still screaming, her pale yellow cardigan and white pantsuit in stark contrast to her tomato-red complexion. “S-s-snake,” she blubbered, pointing at the red and white menace. Schutzi, who had been a brave little mongrel up until the snake looked at her, was now cowering in fear. And Crawly was making a straight arrow for the pigeon cages. 

Crowley picked up a shovel and began fencing with Crawly. She darted here and there, cut off each time by the shovel handle, which Crowley was jabbing at her in an effort to distract her from the delicious-looking gray and white birds. 

Over the chaos came a quartet of children’s’ voices shrieking. A young boy with a very dirty face crashed through Aziraphale’s side gate. “FIRE!!” he howled, pointing at Crowley’s house. There was now the distinct smell of burning greenery. 

Crowley looked at his pet, looked at his house, looked back at the Crawly, then turned and scrambled over the low stone wall into his garden. “Somebody catch that snake!” he yelled over his shoulder. 

Freeze frame. Arthur and Deirdre were running after Brian to find Adam, who was almost certainly at the center of this calamity. Linda was now standing on a table as Schutzi ran and yapped in circles around her. Maud was clutching onto Leslie in abject fear. Tyler had his walking-stick out and was brandishing it as fiercely as if it were a sword. He looked up into the sky as if he expected the angels of Heaven or Hell to swoop down on him next. Mary Hodges was removing her expensive pumps and shoving them into her handbag as if preparing to bolt. Shadwell was hiding behind Madame Tracy and looked thunderstorm-y as if preparing a diatribe on the evils that evil brings upon itself. 

“Everybody!” Aziraphale shouted with some authority from the center of the lawn, and stamped his foot. “Stay calm!” They all looked to him for direction.

"You,” he pointed at Linda, “phone for help.” He pivoted. “Mary, ladder. Put it against the wall so we can climb. Newt and Anathema, take these buckets. Mr. Tyler, please fill them up! The pump is over there. Leslie and Maud, can you go around Mr. Crowley’s side and get the buckets when they’re lowered down?” They all looked at him. “Quickly! Everyone else, if you can carry a bucket, go along the line!” He rolled up his sleeves. “I’m going to get the snake.” 

There was a flurry of activity as the assembled neighbors fought to keep the blaze contained. There were shouts of ‘up here!’ and ‘another bucket!” Aziraphale heard some promising-sounding splashing and hoped the fire wouldn’t spread any further. He turned his attention to the lithe shape in front of him. 

Crawly was a wily adversary. Aziraphale used the blade of the shovel to block her path, but she darted around. He gave up and threw himself down in the dirt. She coiled around his forearms, writhing around as she tried to escape and rejoin the hunt. Snake and man knotted into one angry thrashing creature.

Finally, she gave up and flopped onto the grass. Aziraphale carefully scooped her up and rejoined the others on Crowley’s side of the fence. 

The Them were being appropriately chastised by Arthur on account of their ‘attempting to burn down the whole village!’ Crowley was gazing at the smoldering remains of his raspberry bushes, surrounded by his neighbors, many of whom had never seen his garden before. 

“Everyone all right?” Aziraphale called to the gathered few. There were some nods. Everyone was just sort of shell-shocked. The firemen arrived and hosed down the badly scarred bushes, just in case. The makeshift fire brigade milled aimlessly. Tyler was declaring to anyone who would listen about how in _his_ day the firemen were much faster and more efficient, backed up by a few hmm!s of affirmation from Shadwell. Tracy was offering tissues from her purse to Wensleydale and Pepper, who both had rather a lot of dirt smudged on their faces. 

“All right, everyone,” Aziraphale announced. “Back to my place, please. Single file through the garden gate. Don’t tread on the strawberries!” They obeyed. It was hard to argue with a man carrying a very large snake in his arms, pacified or otherwise. 

He moved to stand beside Crowley, who was now kneeling in the grass, inspecting the trunk and branches of the scorched bushes. “I am dreadfully sorry,” he said, and meant it. 

Crowley returned to his feet and appraised the man next to him as if seeing him for the first time. Aziraphale’s pristine white clothes were torn and stained with grass and mud. He looked exhausted. A very gritty snake was cradled in his arms. 

“I’ve come to return Miss Crawly.” He handed the scaly beast over like she was the most precious heirloom. “I do hope she isn’t hurt.” 

“She’ll be fine.” She slid along his arm to his shoulder, and left a long trail of dark earth behind as she did. Crowley was already soaking wet from being splashed by the water buckets, a little mud wasn’t going to change much. “How are your birds?” 

“Spooked, but none the worse for wear.” He managed a wavering smile. 

“I’m glad to hear it.” His whole presence was laser-focused on Aziraphale. It was a little unnerving. 

“I, erm, I’ve got to get back.” He swallowed, fingers fluttering. “Dishes to wash, and all of that. Make sure everybody gets home on time.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Of course! Anytime. I mean, not that I hope any of this happens again,” he winced. “I just meant—” 

“I’ve got it,” Crowley reassured. “Crystal.” 

Back at his cottage, Aziraphale ushered all his guests out the front door one by one, with thanks for having attended and for having helped 'settle all the commotion, dear me, it really was something, wasn’t it?’ He plied them with biscuits and leftovers, because no guest should ever leave hungry. He reminded them to pick up all their things and to ‘drop by for tea or supper, sometime!’ 

And when most of them had left, he sat on the edge of his armchair with his head between his knees, squishing his temples between both palms. 

“Well, that could have gone better,” he wheezed. One might have thought he was close to tears. 

Madame Tracy edged closer and patted him on the shoulder, offering him a tissue just in case. “You know, dear, it wasn’t your fault.” 

“Actually,” added Anathema, “I think you handled it quite well, all things considered.” 

Aziraphale doubted this. First impressions were desperately hard to shake, and this one had been a disaster. All anyone would remember about this party were the overturned lawn chairs and screaming women and loose snakes and him, Aziraphale Fell, presiding over the chaos of it all. 

He was _doomed._

⁂


	4. The Pity Presents

⁂

Crowley was a few towns over restocking rats for Crawly, who would be spending the next few days in her terrarium as a time-out after the garden party incident. Ugh, what a shit-show. Crowley had lost all of his raspberry bushes, and he'd doubted yelling would do much to fix them. He had spent much of the day after the party pulling up the trunk and roots of the dead bushes and ensuring the plants around the raspberries were undamaged. 

As Crowley was preoccupied thinking about everything he still needed to do to fix his garden, something caught his eye. In the display window of one of those miscellaneous cutesy shops was a white mug with a handle shaped like angels' wings. Crowley froze in front of the display window, staring down at the mug. Unbidden, an image of Aziraphale, his white clothes covered in mud, apologetically holding Crawly out to him, like the fact that Crowley’s snake had tried to eat _his_ pigeons had been any of Aziraphale’s fault, flooded into Crowley’s mind. 

_Aziraphale would like this mug,_ Crowley thought. _But it would be super weird if I got it for him, right? Do neighbors get each other gifts? Is that like a friend-friend thing? Other connotations. Romantic, maybe?_

He swallowed hard and imagined flirting with Aziraphale on purpose. It made his chest feel uncomfortable. Maybe he just had heartburn? God, how awkward. He tried to redirect his concentration which was circling endlessly like a goldfish in a too-small fishbowl. Crowley had been an awful neighbor so far, even if it didn’t seem like Aziraphale cared. Perhaps the mug could be a peace offering. Yeah, a peace offering sounded good. 

He stepped into the shop and picked up the mug. “I’d like this, please,” he told the mildly-concerned shopkeeper, who had been watching Crowley stare fixedly at the display window for about ten minutes now. 

“Of course, sir. Would you like it gift wrapped?” 

“Uhhhh,” Crowley’s brain short-circuited again. Would Aziraphale like it gift wrapped? Would that be too much? 

“Sir?” The shopkeeper asked gently. 

“...Yes?” _Aziraphale deserved gift wrapping._ “Yes, I would like it gift wrapped,” Crowley said with confidence. 

As Crowley left town, he glanced over at the box laid carefully on the seat next to him. 

_How was he going to give it to Aziraphale?_

“Bollocks.” Crowley groaned. 

⁂

Aziraphale spent much of the next few days after the garden party _disaster_ hiding in his cottage. He told himself it was because he needed to sort and ship deliveries, but he was definitely hiding. He’d tried so hard to make that party perfect so he could impress his new neighbors, and it had all gone to hell in a handbasket! His poor pigeons were still too frightened to come out of their cages. 

Not that it was Miss Crawly’s fault, of course. She had just been acting on instinct. Speaking of Miss Crawly, Aziraphale hoped she hadn’t been hurt by the whole ordeal. Once he was done hiding, he planned to stop over at Crowley’s to check up on her, as well as Crowley’s poor plants. He’d have to bake something as an apology for the raspberries. He still felt awful about what had happened—even if he hadn’t technically caused the fire. After all, the children would never have made it anywhere near Crowley’s garden if Aziraphale hadn’t invited them to the party! And if Mr. Crowley hadn’t come over to say ‘hello’ and so forth, which was very sweet of him, he’d have been at home and better able to stop the charming ruffians from mucking about with firelighters (which shouldn’t have been left out in his yard at any rate, but Aziraphale didn’t want to lay blame). He really didn’t want Crowley to dislike him. He’d been _so_ hoping that they could be friends. 

Aziraphale was startled out of his thoughts by his doorbell ringing. 

He pulled open the door to find Crowley standing on his front step, holding a white box tied with a golden ribbon. He was shifting from foot to foot, like he could feel the heat of the pavement through his loafers or something. 

“Hello, Crowley!” Aziraphale greeted him. “Speak—or rather, ‘think’ of the Devil! What can I do for you? Is Miss Crawly alright? How about your garden?” 

“She’s fine, garden’s fine,” Crowley said in a rush. He looked rather overwhelmed by Aziraphale’s flood of questions. “Sorry about the mess at the party.” He scratched at the back of his neck and looked left, right, up, and center at intervals. 

“I’m glad to hear everything ended out all right.” Aziraphale gave the twitchy man a reassuring smile. “Would you like to come in?” 

“Uh, no thank you.” Mr. Crowley shoved the box forward. “I just wanted to give you this.” 

He couldn’t help but beam as he accepted the box. “Oh! Thank you, Crowley.” 

“Don’t mention it.” Crowley wiggled anxiously in place. “Well, I’ll see you around.” Aziraphale watched, mystified, as Crowley all but jogged back to his house, holding his wide-brimmed black hat to his head. 

Aziraphale loved presents, and he opened this one right in his doorway. He pulled off the ribbon, keeping the box closed, and opened the top. Inside, nestled under the wrapping paper, was a gorgeous white mug with angel wing handles. Aziraphale _loved_ it. He hugged the mug to his chest and planned to make a cup of cocoa in it as soon as he could manage. 

_I think that Crowley and I will be_ wonderful _friends._

⁂

Crowley was in his back garden watering his plants without his usual malice. He was far too focused on second-guessing every second of his interaction with Aziraphale. Should he have gone inside the cottage? Did Aziraphale think he was impolite for not coming in? Did Aziraphale like the mug? Did Aziraphale hate the mug, and therefore he now hated Crowley? That particular line of thought made Crowley’s chest feel tight. He used to never care what people thought of him. Really, he still didn’t care, but for some reason he cared what Aziraphale thought of him. Aziraphale wasn’t just ‘people’, he was _different._

Engrossed in his mental disarray and his half-hearted watering, Crowley didn’t notice that the bushes which lined his back wall were shaking and talking quietly until a voice announced, “Mr. Crowley!” 

With instincts born from years of grubby little children stealing apples from his garden, Crowley whipped the hose around and thoroughly soaked the trespassers. 

The four children shrieked. 

“We’re not here to steal your apples!” Adam shouted. 

“Please stop spraying us!” Wensleydale cried, while Pepper and Brian spluttered. 

Crowley pointed his hose away and glared down at them in a way he hoped looked menacing. “What do you four want?” 

“We wanted to apologize for what happened at Mr. Fell’s party.” Adam said. 

“You couldn’t use the front door to say that?” Crowley arched an eyebrow behind his sunglasses. 

The Them exchanged glances like the idea of using the front door had never even crossed their minds. Crowley rolled his eyes. 

“Uh, well. We’re sorry and stuff.” Adam continued, looking less sure of himself than he had a few seconds before. The others chorused their apologies. 

“We also got you this.” Pepper pulled out a little potted plant from under the bush they had been hiding in. “It’s a new raspberry bush. Mrs. Young drove us to the plant shop so we could buy you one.” 

Crowley took the little raspberry bush from the children, “Uh, thanks.” The gesture made him feel off kilter and strange, like there were warm bubbles in his stomach. “Fine. I forgive you all, but I need to keep gardening, so shoo. Go terrorize Tyler or something.” 

“We will!” Brian said cheerfully. 

“Bye, Mr. Crowley!” they called as they disappeared back through the hedge. 

“Weird kids,” Crowley muttered as he set to work planting his new raspberry bush. 

⁂

It turned out the Them weren’t the only ones who felt the need to gift Crowley with new plants after witnessing the tragedy of his burned garden. Not a day later, Leslie and Maud dropped off a small, sweet-smelling tea rose. Two strawberry plants were left on his doorstep the following Friday—one from Mary Hodges, and the other from Gabriel Godwin, of all people. Madame Tracy gifted him an aloe vera along with a sizable bottle of merlot. Newt bought along a little hanging basket of sage from him and Anathema on Wednesday. It was both the nicest and most uncomfortable thing his neighbors had ever done for him. By Thursday, he was quite done with all these gifts. 

Currently, he was having an animated phone conversation with the owner of the plant nursery, who’d heard about the fire attributed to Crowley’s negligent storage of witchy spellcasting supplies, and who was _really_ rubbing it in. “No, Bee, I don’t need any ‘rare orchid specimens’. Do I look like a nineteenth-century hothouse-owning gentlefellow?” He waved his arm about as if gesturing at the unseen conversationalist. “I don’t want them. I don’t need them. I’m a gardener, not a houseplant enthusiast.” At their rejoining remarks, he stiffened and his jaw clenched. “Oh, you think you could do better? Well then, by all means. Why don’t I send a gaggle of toddlers with firelighters over to that miserable heap you call a plant shop and see if you can’t keep the darling cherubs from burning the place down? Maybe you’ll get lucky and they’ll fall into your pond of precious waterlilies.” He jabbed his finger at the ‘end call’ button. 

That damned Bee. Always bragging about how much better they were at gardening, and trying to sell him some pricey new finicky doodad or other that was supposed to improve his garden ‘100%’. Well, they could keep their one-hundred-percent improvements. He’d take a regular old shovel and spade any day of the week. They’d be trying to sell him the Garden of Eden next. 

He heard someone rapping on his front door. He yanked it open and half-shouted “I don’t want any more bloody plants!” 

But it was Aziraphale standing on his front porch, not one of his other neighbors. An Aziraphale that was visibly drooping and holding a plate piled high with biscuits. “Oh dear,” he murmured. 

“Oh, shit—” Crowley stammered, “I mean—uh, sorry. Thought you were someone here to offer me some more bloody greenery." 

“No plants. Rather glad I didn’t bring you any, for my own safety. But I brought biscuits!” Aziraphale offered him the plate with a small, amused smile. “Had some, erm, leftovers. Recipe testing. You know how it goes. Been getting too many guilt-fueled make-up gifts, have you?” 

“Ugh. Yes. Bee has been insufferable about it.” 

“Who?” Aziraphale tipped his head to the side in a way that Crowley could only describe as _adorable._

“Bee... uh... I don’t know what their full name is. They’re the owner-operator of that plant nursery down the road. And they keep bees, so everyone’s always just called them ‘Bee.’” The beekeeper seemed to enjoy cultivating an air of mystery. Nobody knew where they had come from or why they stayed in Tadfield for so long. And Bee certainly enjoyed the shrieks of terror caused by the sight of them digging their hands into a hive sans smoke or protective gear, insects swarming their face and arms. Yeah, the name suited them just fine. 

“Are you two friends?” Aziraphale asked. 

Crowley made a face. “Hardly. They like to get all judge-y about how I’m caring for my garden. Now that everyone’s gone to the nursery to buy apology plants and tell Bee about the fire, they feel the need to relentlessly rib me about it. Do you want to come in?” Crowley realized belatedly it was probably rude to leave Aziraphale standing on his front porch for this long. 

“Oh, no. I simply can’t, I still need to prepare for the book club meeting. Anathema, Madame Tracy, and Miss Pepper are coming over this afternoon to discuss a wonderful book.” Aziraphale looked genuinely apologetic. “I just have time to drop off the biscuits. And on an utterly unrelated note, tell you how sorry I am about the whole ordeal.” 

Crowley waved a hand around dismissively, “It’s fine, really. Adam’s little gang has already apologized.” 

“They have? That’s very kind of them!” Aziraphale grinned one of his blinding smiles that made Crowley’s heart beat very much uncomfortably faster. His stomach lurched. 

“Er, and thanks for the biscuits.” Crowley added, dazed. 

“You’re welcome!” Aziraphale turned to leave, but then suddenly turned around with an even brighter smile than before (if that were even physically possible). “Oh! I nearly forgot to thank you for my mug, how rude of me! I absolutely adore it. Thank you, Crowley.” 

“Yeah, no problem. I thought that—I'm glad you like it,” Crowley mumbled, feeling his face go warm. It was a hot one today, wasn’t it? He’d have to see Mx. Dagon about getting that air conditioning installed. Wouldn’t do to spend the summer all sweaty. Or something. Oh _dear,_ he felt lightheaded. Why was he saying things like ‘oh dear’ all of a sudden? Or even thinking them? “Well, better get on with your meeting then?” he floundered. 

“Yes, I think I’d better get going! Goodbye, Crowley. I hope to see you again soon.” Aziraphale waved a cheerful goodbye and trotted off towards home. 

Crowley was still blushing as his front door swung shut. 

⁂


	5. The Toad Motel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The work Anathema, Pepper, and Madame Tracy are discussing during their book club is the short story "Sultana's Dream" by Rokeya Sakhawat Hossain (aka Begum Rokeya) which can be read in full [here](https://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/sultana/dream/dream.html). You don't necessarily have to know it to understand the chapter, but it's a short read and I recommend everyone read it at some point.
> 
> Following chapter contains some sexually coarse language and objectification of women; please be aware.

⁂

“But why do they keep all the boys locked inside? That’s just rude.” The young woman sits with her arms crossed, protesting the unfairness of it all. 

Anathema looked serious. “At the time, many upper class women in India were segregated and kept apart from men. It’s part of a religious practice called ‘purdah,’ which is still present to a certain degree in several religions.” 

“Really!” Pepper’s eyes were wide. “Were the women in trouble for something? Like criminals?” 

“They weren’t in trouble. The idea was that if women dressed in a way that covered almost all their skin when they went outside, and stayed in a ladies-only part of the house, called a ‘zenana,’ they would remain modest and pure—men wouldn’t harass or hurt them. Begum Rokeya is poking fun at the practice, saying if men were causing harm to women and acting like wild animals, then why shouldn’t the men be locked up instead?” 

“Wow.” Pepper mulled this over. “And they're still making women be separate from men? Should we make them stop?” 

“It’s kind to want to help.” Anathema gave her an encouraging smile. “But it wouldn’t be effective. As non-Muslim, non-Hindu women, we don’t know what it’s like to grow up under a system of purdah like Rokeya did. If we go in and just start telling women of other faiths how to do things, we’re no better than the British colonizers who came into India and started telling the Indian people what they could or couldn’t do.” 

“So what could we do?” Pepper is on the edge of her seat, leaning toward Anathema. 

“The best thing we can do is listen to other women, sharing feminist thoughts and ideas. We’ll work side-by-side, but each on our own issues. We’ll learn from each other so we can all understand what it means to have gender equality—no matter what our culture or religion is.” 

Pepper nodded sagely. “I wanna be a feminist for the UK, and show everyone that girls don’t just have to do ‘girl stuff’. And boys can do girl stuff too.” 

“That sounds like a great goal!” Anathema beamed. “What else did the story make you think about? Ms. Tracy, did you have any ideas?” 

Marjorie Potts raised her hand timidly and trembled. She looked rather like she was about to ask a question in front of a huge lecture hall, rather than in an antique bookseller’s living room. “I—I noticed that technology seemed to be important to the story? Well, they liked some technology. They didn’t much care for the trains or cars.” 

“Good observation! I think the women of Ladyland preferred the technology they made for themselves to suit their own needs, instead of those that reflected the way of life that was imposed on them.” 

“But weren’t the railways and roads a good thing?” Tracy asked nervously. “I mean, to help people get around from here to there.” 

“The railways were mostly used by the British colonial government to speed up the flow of resources back to the British empire. They weren’t installed to help the Indian people, only exploit them.” 

“Oh.” Tracy looks like a deer caught in headlights. “That’s horrible. The government just...took away things for their own ends?” 

“Yup. Tea and cotton and anything else they could get their hands on. They made the Indian people work for them and treated them as second-class citizens in their own country. So the symbols of Western life, like the railroads, would have represented the violence of the British empire to Rokeya and her contemporaries.” 

Tracy's eyes flicked back and forth as if processing thought rapidly. “So by getting rid of the trains and fighting off the enemy nations, the ladies were able to get their freedom back?” 

“Yes!” Anathema clapped her hands once. “Rokeya imagined a future of self-determination for Indian and Bangladeshi women. Instead of asking for men or for Britain to give them power, they used cunning and smarts to seize it by force.” 

“And that’s why they had to go to school!” Pepper shouted, making the connection. “So they would know how to work together and solve problems.” 

“Exactly!” 

“I don’t think I understand it all the way,” admitted Tracy, “but it’s very interesting.” 

“Can I have another biscuit?” Pepper asked. 

⁂

Arthur Young was getting heated. His face bloomed with red streaks and his moustache trembled. But he was trying to stay calm. “I’ve already told you, sir. I have no desire for a bloody swamp in my backyard!” 

Mr. Hastur looked confused. “But everybody wants a rain garden. It’s the latest trend. Look,” he pencilled around the reedy marsh on his garden design. “It takes advantage of this nice natural basin, which is going to get muddy and soupy every time it rains, anyway. This will help with drainage, and the plants will soak it right up!” He rapped his eraser on the table enthusiastically. “Could even put a nice pond in! Good old turtle, couple of frogs...” 

Mr. Young turned overtly blue. “I am NOT having a blasted TOAD MOTEL in my bloody GARDEN!” 

“Suit yourself,” sighed Hastur, rolling up his garden blueprints. “All your neighbors will have one first. And then you’ll come crawling back to me.” 

At least he had drinks to look forward to tonight. 

⁂

Newt was wiping down the bar at the Bull and Fiddle when he heard the jingle of the bell above the door. He saw that Tadfield’s “Undesirables”, as the busybodies of the village had been known to call them, had come into the bar. The group was made up of Bee, Mr. Hastur, Mx. Dagon, and Mr. Ligur, who were all something of outcasts in town due to their general disdain for propriety and following the social rules set by the likes of Michael. Newt didn’t mind them; they were a rather rowdy lot when they had a few too many but they always tipped well. For the last few days he had been stuck serving Michael, Linda, and Gabriel—who had spent most of their time either gossiping about Mr. Fell’s party or plotting various ways they could run Mr. Fell out of town. Newt had been quite at his wit’s end with them. It had taken all his British breed politeness not to tell them all to go sod off. He much preferred Bee’s lot, serving them would be a nice break. 

“Hullo,” he called out. “What would you like me to start you off with?” 

“Just a round of beer,” Bee said. 

“And keep them coming!” Dagon added. 

Pouring beer and handing out rounds had become so second nature to Newt that he had a tendency to zone out during work, his mind wandering to various other things like planning dates for Anathema or figuring out which snippets of gossip he’d heard this week would make Crowley laugh the hardest during their next tea-time. 

Newt was pulled out of his thoughts when Crowley’s name entered the conversation. The group was well into their fourth round of drinks and were getting loud enough that Newt could clearly hear what was being said. 

“You hear about Crowley’s garden?” Ligur said. 

A wicked grin spread across Bee’s face, “Yeah, a bunch of brats set it on fire. Would have loved to have seen that in person.” 

Hastur let out a loud, wheezy laugh, “I would have liked to have seen the look on his face when he realized it.” 

Newt knew that they were mostly talk. The gardening community of Tadfield was cutthroat and full of rivalries. Hastur was the local landscape architect with a penchant for putting marshlands in peoples’ back gardens. He’d developed a contemptuous relationship with Crowley after Hastur had offered to landscape his garden and Crowley had not-so-politely told him to go kick rocks. Bee and Crowley had managed to cultivate a not-quite-friend-not-quite-enemy relationship—they enjoyed sniping at each other, but would occasionally get a beer together. 

“I bet Gabriel was happy when he saw the fire,” Ligur gave Bee a sly look. 

Newt couldn’t help but perk his ears up. Newt was privy to a secret that, as far as he was aware, not many people in town knew. Bee and Gabriel were dating. Despite having apparently been together for awhile, Newt had only figured out the reason why Bee talked about Gabriel so much while they were drinking was because the two were together. It had been Anathema that had finally figured it out for him, when he had explained how unusual he thought it was that Bee talked to their friends and sibling about Gabriel so much. They were such an odd couple that Newt couldn’t help but eavesdrop whenever Gabriel was brought into the conversation. 

Dagon rolled their eyes. “He probably thinks he has the upper hand in the garden contest now.” 

The Annual Tadfield Garden Contest had been won by Anthony Crowley for the past five years in a row, much to the ire of Gabriel Godwin, who had previously been Tadfield’s reigning gardening champion. The contest was judged by Tadfield’s gardening goliaths: Bee, Hastur, and Linda Dorne, the former gardening champion of Tadfield, now retired from competition. The contest always took place towards the end of the summer and had a set of very strict traditional rules that had to be enforced no matter the cost. Newt had actually helped Crowley read through the entire rulebook before his first entry into the competition, although Crowley had described the experience as ‘a form of psychological torture’. 

“Tch.” Ligur wore a cold smirk. “Bet that grubby-handed sanctimonious bastard will lose the contest again, fire or no. Even without our Bee’s,” he coughed suggestively, “tender assistance.” 

Bee’s usual response to being teased about Gabriel was to give a good natured eye roll and say something along the lines of ‘well, at least I’m getting laid.’ But today was different. Bee slammed their glass down hard, the contents of which sloshed over the side and rained down the edge of the table. The whole group went silent as they exchanged worried glances. 

“Trouble in paradise?” Hastur said with the sensitivity of a very drunk person. Dagon elbowed him hard in the side, causing Hastur to nearly topple out of his chair. 

“Nothing’s wrong.” Bee snapped in a way that suggested something was indeed very wrong. “I just don’t want to talk about him or the bleeding contest.” 

Everyone shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Finally, Dagon stood up and walked over to Newt at the bar. 

“I think we’ll be needing something stronger than beer.” 

Newt nodded and tried to appear like he hadn’t been listening to the whole conversation as he poured a round of shots. Thankfully, he excelled at looking like he hadn’t heard things. A few of his less-progressive school teachers had called him ‘deaf as a doornail.’ 

“Fallen out with the big guy, have you? How long have you been together, now?” Ligur enquired. 

Bee had never raised their voice in their friends’ living experience. (Dagon alone could attest to some tremendous tantrums they’d thrown as a child). But now, their eyes grew cold and their voice edged into a hard rasp. 

“Just passed our seventh year anniversary. He didn’t even acknowledge it. Took me out for Thai food a week later and talked about himself and his garden and his stupid bloody plants the whole damned time.” 

“Thought you didn’t care about anniversaries and romantic shite,” Dagon said into their pint glass. “Said you were glad just to get a nice piece of arse now and again.” 

“I didn’t—I hadn’t—” Bee threw up their hands helplessly. “I never cared about that stuff before! But it’s _Gabriel._ More than half a bloody decade I’ve spent with the bastard and he still won’t acknowledge me in public. Always takes me way way out of town for dates, like we’re teenagers sneaking out past curfew for a quick shag. I’m getting too old for that. I think we both are.” 

“Do you love him?” Ligur asked. 

Bee went a charming shade of puce. Hastur chortled. “Doesn’t matter, if you do. Man’s unloveable.” 

“Ease off,” Dagon warned. 

“You said it yourself, Bee. He only ever thinks about himself, talks about himself. He’s in love with his own reflection.” 

Ligur crossed his arms. “I think you’re being a bit harsh.” 

“Look, just because you want to plow his sister—” 

Dagon outright cackled. “I don’t think anyone on this planet would have a chance trying to ‘plow’ Michael Godwin.” She smirked at Ligur, who looked incensed. “Sorry, mate. Hell freezes over, maybe?” 

“Don’t either of you talk about her that way,” he growled. “It’ll be the last thing you do.” 

“I tell it like it is,” Hastur shrugged. “She’s what she is, you’re what you are. She’s never going to want to be with you, not really. Not when it’ll screw up her perfect image.” 

“Oh, don’t you get high-and-mighty, sir.” Dagon shot Hastur a severely arched eyebrow. “Still waiting for Mr. City Hall to call us back, are we?” 

Hastur looked like he’d swallowed a bitter lemon. “Well, at least I’m not the one at the beck and call of a posh English professor!” He mimed a reedy voice. “Oh, Dr. Engel, won’t you hear my dissertation? ‘101 Ways to Snog a Snob!’” 

Dagon looked like they might get up and slap him. “Shh. Walls have ears,” Ligur cautioned. He pushed out his chair and approached the bar, where Newt looked very busy about wiping out a pint glass. “Extra twenty pounds for the discretion,” he said, sliding the note across the wooden bar top, with a wink that suggested _breathe a word of this to anyone, and you won’t have a moment’s peace in this town as long as you live._

Newt took the pound note and shoved it in his pocket. 

⁂

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much of the inspiration for Anathema's "Sultana's Dream" analysis comes from the episode "Sultana’s Dream and Decolonizing Utopia" of the podcast [Utopian Horizons](https://soundcloud.com/user-494053335) with guest Ibtisam Ahmed. It's a much more thorough look at the impact of Begum Rokeya's writing and the history of colonization in utopian fiction, and I highly recommend it if you're interested in learning more about her story. —P


	6. The Rock 'n' Roll Record

⁂

Gabriel was humming as he stepped into the Tadfield Garden Shoppe. 

The nursery was his ‘happy place’. He loved the earthy smell of the plants and the humidity that hung sticky and heavy in the air. He loved the way the sun shone through the windows and created random patterns on the floor as it passed through the green leaves. But what he loved best about the nursery wasn’t its plants or its soils or any of the billion expensive, finicky little accoutrements he always just _had_ to pick up for his garden. 

No, Gabriel’s favorite thing about the Garden Shoppe was its owner—his biggest and best kept secret. He and Bee had been in a relationship for just about seven years now, but no one in the village knew. Gabriel had an image he needed to maintain, and, well, Bee didn’t match it. Bee had always told him they didn’t mind the secrecy, saying that being seen with a pompous bastard like Gabriel would ruin _their_ image, too. Gabriel chuckled when Bee said this and kissed their cheek, much to Bee’s pretend annoyance. 

The nursery was orderly and tidy. Bee always kept their shop in tip-top condition, to the point that Gabriel had been surprised the first time he’d gone over to Bee’s little one-bedroom cottage and discovered that it was an utter disaster. It wasn’t dirty, per se, but it was a chaotic mess. Bee’s things were strewn apparently at random throughout living room, kitchen, and bedroom. He’d ended up asking how Bee found anything, and Bee had just rolled their eyes. As far as Gabriel could tell, Bee was perfectly able to find whatever they needed in the chaos. 

Gabriel suppressed the anticipatory lovesick smile blooming across his face when he saw that Anthony J. Crowley was milling about, peppering Bee with questions about fertiliser. 

“Good evening, Crowley! Getting prepared for the garden contest, I see?” Gabriel put on his sharpest smile in order to shake him up a bit, but Crowley returned a perfectly blank look. 

“Uh, yeah. Sure, Gavin.” He maintained his eye contact and his running debate with Bee, who was getting irritated. 

“Look, Crowley,” they scowled. “Fertiliser is fertiliser. I don’t know what to tell you. Pick one and move on with your life, or I will.” 

“Crowley?” Gavin-briel flashed his most practiced Sunday Luncheon smile, which typically had the effect of turning even the surliest old men into terrified quivering jelly. “Why don’t you make your purchase now, and head on back towards home? I’m sure you’ve got a nice, ah... dinner, waiting for you.” 

“I don’t need your help, Gabriel,” Bee snapped. 

“You know, I was hoping to get a chance to talk to Bee alone. Privately?” Gabriel hinted to Crowley. “Before it’s time to close down for the night.” 

Bee crossed their arms. “Gabe-” they hissed, then added ‘-riel,” for the dose of appropriate formality in front of company. 

Crowley pushed those obnoxious, silly, infuriating sunglasses up on his nose. “Ohh,” he said, looking back and forth between them. “Partner squabble?” 

Gabriel panicked. “Bee is my, um,” he threw an arm over their shoulder in a chummy way, “very good friend! Yeah. I was just hoping we could, um, talk shop about the garden contest. Every inch counts, you know.” Bee shrugged his arm away. 

The redhead mulled this over. “Sounds a bit like favoritism,” he sniffed. “But what do I know? Juuust going to check over the nitrogen content of these blends for a moment longer. Don’t mind me.” He scrutinized the labels on the back of the bags for an agonizing eternity. Bee was turning several shades of scarlet. Finally, Crowley made a sound like ‘meh,’ put all the bags back, and announced, “Actually, I think I’ve got all I need at home.” He nodded at Bee then sauntered out of the shop. They glared after him. 

Gabriel let out a huff, feeling deflated. He pouted a bit for Bee’s benefit. “Do you really think he doesn’t know my name?” He glanced over in time to see Bee shrug. Their back was to him and they were now misting some succulents. He continued, unconcerned. “We’ve been passionate rivals for the past five years! I bet it’s a tactic to try to throw me off my game.” Gabriel thumped his fist on the counter. “Well, it won’t work!” He paused and shot another glance towards Bee, but Bee was still misting the succulents. Huh. They were being unusually quiet. He edged closer until he was standing right up next to Bee. “I’ve been trying out a new fertiliser, myself. Not that the ones you sell aren’t great! I just read about blending your own mixes online. Composting and adding pH balancers and all that. They said this one would give my garden the extra kick it needs so I can finally beat Crowley. Don’t you fret, I’m going to win this year!” he boasted. Gabriel halted his monologue again and waited, still no reply. Finally, he sighed and asked, “Bee? Is something the matter?” 

Bee finally turned to look at him, but their face was completely unreadable. “I’m fine.” 

Gabriel suppressed a shiver. Bee didn’t express their anger in the hot, explosive way most people did, but they became cold and blank instead. Bee’s tone just now was one of the coldest Gabriel had ever heard. They were certainly not ‘fine’. He swallowed thickly. He never knew how to talk to Bee when they got like this. “Did something happen today?” 

“No.” 

Gabriel fidgeted uncomfortably, “Is Dagon okay?” Dagon was Bee’s sibling, and the only person, other than Gabriel himself, that Bee seemed to care about. 

“They’re fine.” Bee flittered away to start exclaiming the leaves of an umbrella plant. 

Gabriel loosened his tie. He was becoming uncomfortably sweaty. “Did I do something?” he asked, softly. He had no idea what he could have done, but he was running out of ideas. 

Bee didn’t answer, but asked instead, “Do you love me?” 

Gabriel blinked. That was an absurd question! “Of course I do.” 

Bee turned to face him. Their face had lost its blankness and was now pinched in anger. “Then why am I still your dirty little _secret?”_

Gabriel felt his stomach sink like a rock. “We—uh… I thought we talked about this before?” 

“It’s been seven years, Gabriel. I’m tired of sneaking around like disobedient children.” There was a definite fury in their neat, contained movements as they snipped at browning palm fronds. 

“But it’s against the rules!” Gabriel protested, becoming desperate. 

“What _rules?”_ Gabriel flinched at the coldness that infused the question. 

“The garden contest rules! I’m a participant and you’re a judge—we can’t be seen fraternizing, or else I’d be eliminated and you’d be fired!” Gabriel stammered. He hoped that Bee could understand why they couldn’t be out as a couple. Bee loved judging the contest too, in their own detached way. Or at least that’s what they’d always told him. Surely they wouldn’t want to give that up? 

And he didn’t want to stop participating in the contest, either! The garden contest was his whole _life._ It was the only thing he looked forward to all year. His whole identity was wrapped up in being one of Tadfield’s best gardeners. He’d assumed that as a fellow plant-lover, Bee would understand. But now they were forcing him to choose. Between their until-recently happily clandestine relationship and everything that Gabriel thought made him, well, _Gabriel._

Bee stared at him for a long moment then asked, “Is this contest more important to you than me? Than us?” 

Gabriel opened his mouth to reply _of course not._ But nothing came out. When Bee turned their back on him, it felt very final. 

“Get out, if you’re not going to buy something,” Bee said. 

Gabriel left with tears in his eyes. 

⁂

Newt wandered around Aziraphale’s cottage. He looked rather comfortable there; then again, everyone did. It was just that sort of place. Aziraphale made it a point to welcome everyone, no matter the time of day (or night). “So!” Newt wondered aloud. “When are you going to open your bookstore?” 

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Aziraphale replied, intent on his computer screen. “It’s already open.” 

“So you’re not getting a proper storefront? People just... walk in here and haggle with you, or something?” He hefted a nice copy of Moby Dick, flipping through the pages. 

“No, dear boy. It’s an online store!” 

Newt visibly quailed. “Oh, uh, that’s great, I guess.” 

“Something the matter?” Aziraphale had an uncanny habit of picking up on when someone was distressed. He could be a veritable bloodhound until he figured out what it was and did his best to remedy it, or at least lend a listening ear. Newt and the others had learned it was best to just out with it. 

“I’m not great with computers,” he admitted with a sheepish expression. “I don’t even have an email address.” 

“Newton Pulsifer!” The bookseller was shocked. He pushed his little round-rimmed glasses down the bridge of his nose and fixed Newt with a stern look. “You mean to tell me a young fellow such as yourself can’t grasp simple computer literacy? Why, I’m coming up on twice your age and even I have the basics down.” 

Newt laughed. “You are not twice my age. But point taken. It has been rather hard to search for jobs or do any paperwork. Everything’s done on the Internet these days.” 

“Here, why don’t I help you get set up?” He sat Newt down in front of his 1990’s beige Dell monstrosity, pulled up his search engine (which took almost a full minute to boot) and painstakingly typed ‘gmail.com’ into the browser bar. “Now, you just follow these nice easy steps and they’ll get you started with your very own e-mail!” Aziraphale beamed.

“Great.” 

Tracy and Anathema were bent low over one of the side tables, chattering excitedly. They’d been at this ‘book club’ thing for weeks. Shadwell was pacing around, flipping through Aziraphale’s stacks of books. He never seemed to sit still, odd for a man who was definitely getting on in years. 

“All right, I think I’m done!” Newt called to his host. Just as he hit enter, the screen froze. “Ah, shit.” 

He hurried over to the stalled monitor. “What did you do?” 

“Nothing! It just asked me to submit the form, and I said ‘yes.’” 

“My word.” Aziraphale entered the command line program, attempting to key in some commands that would bring it back to life. “I thought you were exaggerating.” 

Newt covered his eyes with his hands, smudging the lenses of his eyeglasses. “I’m hopeless.” 

“Hah!” Shadwell cried, with apparent delight. There was the distinct sound of blades cutting through paper. 

Aziraphale whipped his head around. “What was that?” 

Shadwell proudly displayed his clipping: what appeared to be a very old reproduction of a woodcut carving, this demonstrating various forms of witch-torturing. 

The bookseller clutched his chest, looking faint. 

Tracy looked up from her reading, then sprang out of her chair with a speed that belied her age. _“Thomas!”_

He grinned back, showing her his prize. 

She snatched the injured book from his hands. “Abso _lute_ ly not! Have you any manners at all?!” She set it aside and went to comfort Mr. Fell, who looked like he might be on the verge of a cardiac episode. “I am so sorry, dear. We’ll pay for the copy, of course.” She glared daggers at the errant husband, who was whistling through his teeth as he made notes (or perhaps drew moustaches on) his stolen picture. 

“Please tell Mr. Shadwell,” he managed, in a voice more strangled than smooth, “that he is welcome to make a photocopy of any of my books to his heart’s content, but I recommend he refrain from _cutting up_ any of the pages.” 

⁂

It was a warm night and the moon was rising. Crowley was kicking back with The Best of AC/DC on vinyl and a glass of Madame Tracy’s admittedly pretty good merlot. Hell yeah, he was playing it loud. He dared anyone to try listening to "Thunderstruck" at a so-called 'respectable volume'. 

And then came that oh-so-predictable and dreaded _bing-bong_ of the doorbell. He sighed a sigh which felt a thousand years long, and which seemed to drain all of the energy out of his body, before he slowly hauled himself to his feet to answer it. 

Then, out the window, he saw Aziraphale’s pouf of blonde hair and stuffy formal coat, and his heart sank like a stone. It had been too good to last, probably. Not that Crowley could ignore the swoop of excitement in his stomach upon seeing him. He opened the door with an almost deliberate slowness, as if he was the sole jailer of this self-imposed dungeon. Just a crack, just enough to see the grey of Aziraphale’s eyes. Even that was almost too much. His wretched heart was doing somersaults in his chest. “Hi,” he greeted him, barely loud enough to be heard over the shriek of _No stop signs, speed limit / Nobody's gonna slow me down_ from the other room.

“Hi, Crowley,” Aziraphale gave him a worried smile, crushing what looked to be some kind of hat between his hands. “I hate to be a bother. I was just wondering, if, um—” 

Crowley held his breath, already knowing what came next. He could recite it line for line, just like a script. _Crowley, I’m sorry, but that music is far too loud. Turn it down, before the police have to get involved. It’s just too much. I can’t take it anymore._ People were always asking Crowley to turn ‘it’ down. Be less noisy, less conspicuous, less distracting, less obvious, less weird. Less, less, _less._

It felt like no matter what volume he kept his life at, it would always be too much for everyone else around him. He felt it when he walked into rooms. At least this way, he could make sure all eyes were on him wherever he went. He was in control. He was loud, and he liked it. He could be Crowley, no matter if it suited anyone else’s precious taste. Even if it were the taste of, say, his excessively gentle and kind next-door neighbor. 

“—if I could come listen to your music with you?” 

_Huh?_

The confusion must have been writ plain across Crowley’s face, because Aziraphale looked like he could melt into a puddle from sheer terror. “I don’t mean to intrude, obviously! It just seemed like you were having a lot of fun—I—I should probably go...” 

Crowley slowly recovered from his surprise. “No, um, I mean, you can come in.” 

“Oh, okay!” Aziraphale grinned, a faint glow lighting up his timid expression. Crowley let the door swing wide. He was painfully conscious that this was Aziraphale’s first time ever entering his house. He sort of wished he had bothered to clean it up, and maybe put on something nicer than an old pair of joggers and ooh, was that mint? Maybe clove? He backpedaled towards reality, trying not to drown in the tide of distraction that was the prim, angelic man before him. “Nice wall decor you’re got there!” Aziraphale shouted over the din. He was pointing at Crowley’s replica painting of White Jesus sharpied over with devil horns, goatee, and a little eyepatch. (Crowley had picked it up for a pound at the church rummage sale. It was a little tasteless, maybe, but it’s not like he had ever expected _visitors.)_

“Mm-hmm?” He couldn’t really process what Aziraphale was saying. He was chattering animatedly, looking back over his shoulder ever so often to smile that dazzling smile at Crowley. He felt rather like a deer in headlights. Aziraphale seemed to need to touch everything in the house like it was his own, letting his fingertips graze over the kitchen table, run down the blinds, slide over the back of the sofa. Crowley was surprised that this didn’t make him feel intruded upon. In fact, he rather liked it. Aziraphale looked at home, here. 

He turned down the sound of the record player so he could hear Aziraphale better. The latter sat in an armchair, knees bent at stiff angles, elbows tucked into his sides. Those curious hands were folded in his lap, a tightly wound puzzle. He looked uncomfortable in his own skin. Crowley desperately wished for him to take up space again. 

“Um,” Aziraphale began. “What... musical group is this, exactly?” 

Crowley snickered, incredulous. “Are you joking?” 

“No. Should I be?” 

“That’s AC/DC. One of the most popular rock bands of all time. You _have_ to have heard of them.” 

“Deesy...” he repeated to himself. “I’m afraid I’m not very familiar with the genre.” His eyes were turned bashfully towards the floor. 

“I’ll say.” Crowley took a healthy swig from his wine glass. “What, did you grow up under a rock or something?” It came out louder than he intended, and he winced. 

“Sort of,” Aziraphale chuckled. “I was an only child. Went to boarding school for a bit, lived with my great aunt until I was seventeen.” 

He nodded as if to say ‘thought so.’ “Not fond of ‘the devil’s music’, was she?” 

“I think she rather took to Classical.” 

They looked at each other and burst out laughing. Neither really knew why. 

“Drink?” Crowley offered. 

“Oh, please!” He was handed an overflowing goblet of rich red wine, of which he took dainty sips. “You know,” he added, reclining at a respectable angle, “I think that this music would be fun to dance to.” 

Crowley’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead like wayward caterpillars. “You dance?” 

“Not to anything like this,” he admitted. “I know some folk dances, waltz, polka... tango... bit of ballet.” 

From the floor, Crowley whistled. He was laying on his back, eyes closed, wine glass teetering perilously towards the carpet. Something about Aziraphale made him feel excessively comfortable, even if his neighbor _was_ sitting like the upholstery might burn him. “Quite a skill set. Where do you pick up something like that?” 

He cleared his throat with great delicacy. “Finishing school. Technically.” 

Crowley laughed uproariously. “Oh, that’s perfect. That just about explains,” he waved his hand in Aziraphale’s direction, “all of this.” 

He reddened. “All of what?” 

“Diction, elocution, manners,” he rattled away. “Prim and proper. Gentlemanry.” 

“That’s not even a word,” Aziraphale sniffed, smoothing out the creases in his trousers. 

“Oh, don’t take it so hard, angel.” He yawned. He was really arse over teakettle for Aziraphale, wasn’t he? If the blasted petnames kept slipping out like that, he was going to end up in a world of trouble. Right now, he was relaxed and tipsy enough not to care. 

Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind, anyhow, or maybe he hadn’t caught it. The wine was settling in, giving a boozy glow to his rounded cheeks. His eyes were starting to close, head nodding. 

The blades of the ceiling fan were blurred of focus. Crowley reached up with his free hand, as if to pluck the whirring pieces out of the air. “ ‘M only teasing. You act so elegant and posh. Sometimes it makes people think you’re stuck up, you know. But you’re way too nice for that.” Crowley peeked at him with one eye, trying to gauge his response. The other eye was squinted shut against the vagaries of blood alcohol. 

Aziriphale looked faintly embarrassed. “Oh.” Then “You think I’m nice?” 

“ ‘Course you are,” Crowley groused. “Absurdly so.” 

He sat up a little straighter, rolling his neck as if trying to drag himself back into wakefulness. “Ooh, I’m glad you feel that way. Sometimes I’m not sure if our fellow Tadfield residents feel the same.” 

“ ‘Fuck cares what they think?” he blustered. “You’ve gotta live for _you._ Everything else is just... noise.” 

“Bold of you,” Aziraphale mumbled. “I care what everyone thinks of me. Probably too much.” 

“And what would happen, if you didn’t? If you stopped caring what those bastards say about you,” Crowley pried, “would it change anything?” 

“Well...” he sighed. 

“Wanting people to like you won’t make them like you any more, or any less, than they already do.” 

He chewed his lip. “But I have to try, don’t I?” 

“Not really.” Crowley belched. “You seem to put up with me, and I did my best to put you off from the moment we met.” 

“I suppose that’s true.” 

“Like, if you like being nice to people, and it makes you happy, then do it! But make sure it’s what you want to do, you know?” He waved his hands around in a way that was probably supposed to be encouraging, but looked more like he was drunkenly directing the dust motes in a rendition of Beethoven’s 5th. 

He slumped down a little in his chair and smiled. “You really are quite kind, Anthony.” 

“Oh, shove off.” 

⁂


	7. The Mad Cyclist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter is up early this week as we are both going on vacation! Replies to comments may be up a few days later.

⁂

“They do look like they’re having fun,” Aziraphale said wistfully as he watched the Them pedal down the street on their small fleet of bicycles. He blew the collected steam away from his teacup. 

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed. “Being a kid was fun, I guess.” He didn’t look up from his newspaper. 

“I never learned how to ride a bicycle.” 

That did catch Crowley’s attention. He threw the newsprint aside in a flurry of rustling paper. “You’ve never ridden a bike?” 

He shrugged. “I never had the opportunity. Wasn’t a big ‘thing’, growing up.” 

“Get up.” Crowley stood from his seat. “I’ve got an old bike in the shed. You’re not leaving here until you learn how to ride it.” 

Aziraphale looked faintly embarrassed. “Oh, I don’t know, don’t you think we’re getting a little old for that sort of thing?” 

He offered Aziraphale his hand and helped him up from the kitchen table. “No better time than the present!” 

⁂

Aziraphale perched anxiously on Crowley’s rickety fixed-gear bicycle. 

“Crowley, I really don’t like this. It’s far too... wobbly.” 

“I’ll hold you steady,” he soothed. “Now, pedal.” 

Aziraphale gritted his teeth as Crowley led him down the side of the street. The spokes whirred as he tried to sync the rhythm of the pedals with the motion of the wheel. His movements got larger and less controlled and the bike started to rock from side to side. “Crowley!” he yelped. “I’m going to fall!” 

“You’re fine!” Crowley let go of the bike. There were a few, exuberant seconds as Aziraphale pedaled in a straight line, wind ruffling his hair. 

“I’m doing it!” he called back. “Look!” 

“You’re doing great!” And then he watched in horror as Aziraphale sped up, veering wildly out of control. “BRAKE!” he yelled. The mad cyclist zoomed into Crowley’s hedges and tumbled to the ground, landing in the flowerbed. Crowley rushed over, hand flittering over the call button on his cell phone. “Aziraphale?” 

“Ow,” he winced, holding his wrist. 

Arm around his waist, Crowley hauled him to his feet. “Maybe this was a bad idea. Are you all right?” 

He flexed the injured arm. “Just sore, I think.” A fierce light came into his eyes. “I want to go again.” 

“You sure?” 

_“Positive.”_

⁂

Michael Godwin was in Bee’s shop, and Bee was not happy about it. 

Michael brought up thoughts about... _him._ Bee had spent the better part of the past week trying hard not to think about Gabriel. Dagon had borne the brunt of Bee’s efforts to forget Gabriel, and had often ended up listening to Bee’s rants and keeping up Bee’s supply of ‘wallowing’ ice cream. (Dagon had taken to calling it that in the privacy of their own head, lest Bee hear them say it.) And it had been easy for Bee not to think about their ex-boyfriend, for a while. But now Michael was inconveniently standing in Bee’s shop, staring down her nose at all their plants and making Bee think thoughts they’d rather not be thinking about. 

It wasn’t just that Michael was in the shop, Bee could probably ignore that easily, but Michael was _on the phone with Gabriel._

“You need to stop this moping, Gabriel. It’s pathetic,” Bee couldn’t help but overhear. “Linda said she saw you watering the begonias in your bathrobe at two in the afternoon. What would Mother say if she saw you?” 

Bee suppressed a wince. Bringing up Mother Godwin was a low blow. Bee had come to hate the twins’ mother, despite never having met her. From the stories Bee had heard, Mrs. Godwin was a distant woman who spent very little time with her children. Michael and Gabriel had spent their respective childhoods trying to win their mother’s affection with little success. 

“Yes, well. I don’t care if you’re ill. You should have taken those vitamins I bought you. I’ve been taking them for years and I have never gotten sick.” Michael said as she brought a new spade up to the counter. She didn’t even glance at Bee as she paid for the spade and left. Bee was rather used to it though. They had always been invisible to Michael. 

After Michael left, Bee tried to busy themself with pruning the spider plants, but their mind began drifting back towards Gabriel. He was sick? Bee knew how much of a baby Gabriel was when he got sick—but usually Bee was the only one who got to see his whiny side. On the outside, Gabriel never looked very sick... not even if he had the flu, or something. Bee had certainly never heard of Gabriel being seen outside his home in a bathrobe. Gabriel was far too wrapped up in his perfect image to ever appear disheveled. 

Bee huffed out a sigh. It wasn’t their business if Gabriel was sick, or not. Gabriel had made it obvious that his image and his garden were more important than Bee. 

They blinked hard at that thought, and carefully set down the shears as their eyes were blurred by unshed tears. Crying over Gabriel would be ridiculous. Bee didn’t cry over anything. 

Bee blinked harder as two tears slipped down their cheeks. 

He was a bastard and he didn’t deserve their tears, Bee thought, even as more trickled down their face. 

But... but they did _miss_ him, damnit. 

“Oh dear, are you all right?” Bee nearly jumped out of their skin at the sound of the soft voice that sounded very near them. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Bee hurriedly rubbed the tears from their face and glared at the man. He was short with blond, nearly white curly hair and he wore a very old fashioned outfit. “Would you like a handkerchief?” the man asked, offering an embroidered cream colored square to Bee. 

“No,” Bee said stiffly, “I just got some dirt in my eye.” 

“Hazards of the job, I suspect—but where’s my manners, I’m Aziraphale. I just moved to Tadfield about a month ago. I’m guessing you must be Bee?” Aziraphale smiled kindly.

“Yeah, that’s me.” Bee turned back to grab their shears. “Do you need anything?” 

“Oh, just a hose attachment, if you wouldn’t mind.” 

⁂

“He didn’t even know who AC/DC were!” It was Wednesday, and per usual, Crowley and Newt were drinking tea on Crowley’s back porch, enjoying the lovely summer weather. 

“Honestly, that doesn’t surprise me,” Newt laughed. 

“What?” Crowley whipped his head around to glare at Newt. 

Newt shrugged, now self-conscious and wary of Crowley’s ire. “He looks like he listens to opera music for fun—not a bad thing. I like the whole old-stuffy-professor schtick he’s got going on.” 

Crowley slowly let out the infuriated breath he was holding. He didn’t know why he now felt so defensive on Aziraphale’s behalf. Rather, he knew exactly why, but he wasn’t willing to admit it yet, not even in his own head. “Everyone likes Aziraphale,” Crowley murmured. 

Newt pulled a face in reply. 

“What?” Crowley demanded, sitting up again. 

“It’s nothing, really!” Newt amended, trying to defuse Crowley’s irritation. He did very badly with tense situations. They made him sweaty. 

“People are saying shit, aren’t they? Is it because of the party?” Crowley said with faux nonchalance, trying to regain his old aloof disinterest (and not having any success). He was leaning far over the armrest of his chair, well into Newt’s airspace. 

Newt leaned away, trying to regain some distance. “It’s just the old Tadfield Blowhards gossiping. It’s not anything to get worked up about.” 

Crowley clenched his jaw, causing the muscle there to jump. “What are those bastards saying?” 

Newt wiggled and scratched at his chin, “Y’know, just stuff about how his party was sort of disorganized and... uh...” He trailed off. 

“And what?” Crowley all but snarled. 

“That his party was such an embarrassment that he should move out of the village.” Newt finished in a rush and then winced, not daring to look at Crowley. 

Crowley slammed his tea cup onto the table, causing the contents to slosh out of the cup. He sprang to his feet and started pacing. 

“None of it was his fault! If anything all the shit that happened at the party was my fault!” Crowley ran a hand through his hair and groaned. 

“How was any of that your fault?” Newt asked. 

“It was my snake and my garden!” Crowley slumped back into his chair. “I only showed up to antagonize him, anyway. He would have had a perfect party if it weren’t for me.” 

“I think even if his party had been perfect, they would have still picked on him.” Newt said gently. 

“But—” Crowley swallowed thickly. Aziraphale was just so easy to be around. He never forced Crowley to be any more or any less than what he was, and he seemed to actually enjoy Crowley’s eccentricities. He had never felt so... so _himself_ around anyone in his whole life. Crowley was both exhilarated and terrified by the feelings Aziraphale stirred in him. But he was also frightened of losing those feelings and admitting out loud the thoughts that had been swirling in his brain late at night. “What if he leaves because of all the gossip?” Crowley couldn’t stand it if Aziraphale left. Because then he would take all those feelings with him, and Crowley would be alone again. 

Newt dared to reach out a hand and give Crowley’s arm a gentle pat. He wasn’t typically one for physical contact, but Crowley just looked so _sad._ “I think you need to give more credit to Aziraphale. I don’t think a handful of bad apples are going to run him out of town that easily.” 

Crowley sighed. “I just wish there was some way I could show him that not everyone in town dislikes him.” 

Newt hummed but didn’t reply. He could tell that Crowley was now deep in thought. 

“What if I... this is going to sound crazy, but what if I planned him a new party? I’ll make sure that it’s the perfect party. I’ll be able to show him that he does belong in Tadfield!” 

“I think that’s a great idea!” Newt grinned, but as quickly as the smile came it disappeared. “Isn’t the garden contest coming up soon, though? I don’t see how you’ll have time to plan a party while preparing for the contest.” 

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Fuck the contest. If my garden doesn’t win this year it doesn’t matter to me.” Aziraphale mattered more. “I’ll need help, though.” He turned a charming smile onto Newt. 

“Of course I’ll help! Can I tell Anathema, too? She’s just generally... better at things than me.” Newt said. 

“More the merrier. Heaven knows I need all the help I can get.” Despite the daunting task ahead, Crowley was suddenly feeling quite determined. This was going to be the best bloody party Tadfield had ever seen. Eat your heart out, Michael. 

⁂


	8. The Bended Knee

⁂

Crowley found himself growing oddly anxious as he painstakingly dialed the number that wasn’t in his contacts list. He punched in each digit like it might bite him.

“Hello?”

Shadwell’s growl came in crackly over the connection. “No solicitors.”

Crowley sighed. “Put your wife on the line. Thank you.”

“Ingrate,” Shadwell muttered. There was a fumbling sound and a bright voice picked up the call. “Who is it?”

“It’s me, Madame Tracy. Uh, Anthony Crowley.”

“Oh, hello dear!” Crowley hadn’t been expecting this warm of a reaction. “May I ask why I have the pleasure of your call?”

“I had, erm, a question for you.” How to put it? “I was thinking about planning a party for... someone... a friend of mine. Only I’m not really sure where to start.”

Tracy’s voice got a knowing smirk in it. He didn’t know how that carried across the phone line, only that it did. “This wouldn’t be a party for nice Mr. Fell, now, would it?”

_Foiled._ “It might be,” he said through gritted teeth. “It would be a very secret surprise party, if it were.”

“Noted.” She paused as if waiting for more information. “Well, the first thing to think about would be the size of the venue...”

“Venue?” He hadn’t even considered it. “At my house, I guess.”

She clucked in disapproval. “Fine for a casual party, but this is to be a special event, isn’t it? And how many guests were you going to be inviting?”

“Ummm...” He hadn’t thought about that, either. Aziraphale was the only guest that really mattered. Although if more people showed up, all the better to prove to Aziraphale that he belonged in Tadfield. “Whole town, probably.”

“Now, do you think the whole town is going to fit into your back garden? Certainly they wouldn’t, not without trampling all over your rosebushes and destroying that lovely green grass.”

“Point taken.” He scribbled _Venue?_ on the back of an old receipt.

“I do think the town hall rents out the community center for big parties now and then. You could ask them about it.”

“Good idea.” He added _(TOWN HALL)_ in large sloppy letters. “Anything else a party should have?”

“Well, food of course. Catering, if it’s to be a large group. You wouldn’t want to cook all that yourself. Music! No great party can be held without it. Make sure the venue has lots of tables and chairs, so the guests won’t all be standing around. Places to put hats and bags and so forth. And I think every party should have lots of flowers!”

_Catering?? Music??? Flowers????_ was added underneath his previous notes. “Thank you. You’ve been most... helpful.” The last bit came out like a confession extracted under duress.

“Anytime, dear! Let me know if you need any help with all this!”

Crowley hung up. This was going to be a lot harder than he had imagined.

⁂

Aziraphale was lounging in Crowley’s living room. He was glued to the television set, watching _Love Island._ He’d never admit it, but he loved these ridiculous programs. He didn’t have a telly in his own house—if he did, he’d never get anything done.

“What are you having for dinner, dear?” he asked, all of a sudden.

Crowley scratched the back of his neck. “Er. I don’t know. Was probably going to head to the pub and get a couple of snacks.”

“Oh, we should make something!” He practically leapt off the couch, eyes ablaze with excitement. “What shall we have?”

“I dunno, I don’t usually keep a lot of ingredients on hand.”

He rolled up his sleeves, looking determined. “I’ll figure something out.”

Strictly speaking, Aziraphale didn’t cook. There was a perfectly good reason why not, though he’d forgotten it in his excitement: he didn’t know how.

He got out a pot of water and turned the heat up very high. “Noodles. Can’t spoil noodles,” he muttered under his breath. As the water bubbled, he sorted through Crowley’s pantry. Chili powder. That should be good for something! Oatmeal. Probably not. Cake mix: not for dinner, but maybe after...

He unboxed some pasta and dumped it into the water. Upon raiding Crowley’s fridge he discovered sour cream, butter, and dill. That should be good for a cream sauce, or the like? He threw some butter onto a heated pan and it spattered everywhere—he flinched and staggered backwards, stumbling into the pots rack.

“What are you doing in there?” Crowley called, inflection denoting concern. 

“Just cooking! No need to worry!” He tossed a frozen chicken breast onto the sputtery butter pan. It sizzled as it made contact, which was probably a good sign. He turned his back to the stove, whistling as he whisked some sour cream and pats of butter in a bowl. Bit clumpy, but he supposed it would come out all right after it had cooked. He chopped up some dill from the packet and scattered it in, then decided to shake some chili powder into the sauce. Whoops! A little much, there. He added some curry to balance it out.

A bag of slightly soggy green beans that hadn’t quite gone off yet were added into the mixture. Oh, how he loved a good green bean. 

From the stovetop behind him, the chicken pan started to smoke. And then it caught fire. He yelped and held it out toward the kitchen window, which he opened with a mittened hand. The smoke alarm beeped insistently.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley came running in, skidding on the tile in his socks. “What in the Lord’s name are you doing?”

“Cooking!” He bared his teeth in a hopeful grin, chicken sliding down the buttered pan in his hand.

“Let me at that.” He gently divested Aziraphale of his poultry prize. The outside had turned a deep brown bordering on black, but when he cut it open, the flesh was pure pink. “Heaven’s sake, Aziraphale, were you going to serve me seared chicken?” he chided.

“I honestly thought it would cook through!”

He poked at the noodles in the pot, which had congealed into a starchy mass. “How is it that you’re an expert baker and you can’t even prepare pasta?”

He shrugged helplessly. “Never learned, I guess? I thought it would be easy... All the great chefs talk about ‘cooking by feel.’”

Crowley hid a small, amused smile. “Next time you feel a culinary inclination, how about ‘cooking by recipe,’ hmm?”

“All right, all right.” He rolled his eyes, but admired Crowley as he respectfully scrapped Aziraphale’s attempts at a meal and started over.

“How about some _spaghetti alla puttanesca?”_

“I’m game!”

⁂

Crowley stood on the other side of the gate of an immaculate front garden. It was so perfect that it made him cringe a little. His plants were well-disciplined, but they still had a personality; here, the plants were lifeless. Their only purpose was to maintain the image of the person that owned them. He didn’t want to be here, standing in front of this clinically maintained garden, but he had no other choice if he wanted to get the community center for Aziraphale’s party. But how was he going to convince her?

Crowley had gone to Tadfield Town Hall to inquire about renting out the community center. Mayor Elijah Sandalphon himself had come down to tell Crowley, ‘actually, Michael Godwin deals with the community center rental procedures.’ Crowley had wanted to slap the smug smile off his face. 

So here he was, dressed in his most boring clothes: a black button up tucked into a pair of grey slacks, paired with black oxfords. He’d forgone his usual silver cross earrings and all of his snake-themed jewelry, and purposefully styled his long hair in a way that would cover the snake tattoo just below his sideburns. And now he was frozen in front of Michael Godwin’s perfect house. He knew Sandalphon would have alerted Michael that he was going to be stopping by, so she'd certainly had time to plan her refusal speech. Crowley wasn’t hopeful that Michael would let him rent the venue, but for Aziraphale’s sake, he had to try. 

Crowley took a deep, fortifying breath. He poised himself to knock on the front door, and held the flowers that he had picked from his own garden and arranged himself aloft like a shield. 

Just as his fist landed the first knock, Michael pulled open the door. Had she been watching him, waiting for him to finally knock? He must have looked like such an idiot frozen in front of her house. 

“Good morning, Anthony.” She smiled, but it wasn’t a very friendly smile.

Crowley wasn’t a fan of people using his first name unless they were close friends. He grit his teeth and politely replied, “Good morning, Michael. I was hoping to get a moment to speak with you, if you have the time? And I also brought you these flowers, from my garden.” His fake️, plastered-on smile was already beginning to make his cheeks hurt. 

Michael accepted the flowers, giving them a dismissive once over. “I do, in fact, have a moment. Please come in.”

Crowley was led to the living room and offered a perfect white couch to sit on. Michael disappeared to find a vase for the flowers, giving Crowley a moment to glance around her home. 

He’d never been in Michael’s home, of course, but it certainly was what he expected it to be. Everything in the living room was spotless and in its place. All the furniture were light in color, as was, really, everything in the room. It was an oddly sparse living room with very little decorations—the most noticeable of which was a large family portrait hanging above the fireplace. At second glance, it appeared that the family portrait was the only personal photo in the whole room. The overall feeling that the room gave Crowley was one of coldness and it put him on edge. 

“Thank you for waiting,” Michael said as she stepped back into the room. She carried with her a tray of tea and biscuits. They didn’t look nearly as good as the ones Aziraphale made. 

Crowley politely took a sip of his tea before setting it down. He faced Michael squarely and said, “I’m sure you have heard—” (from Sandalphon, he didn’t say, but it was implied) “that I wish to rent out the community center September 7th, for a party.”

Michael hummed thoughtfully before taking a sip of her own tea. “I was made aware of this plan, yes. I did not take you for someone who hosted parties, Anthony.”

Crowley’s polite smile tightened. “I’m expanding my horizons.” 

“How nice for you.” She sipped her tea as he began to seethe inside. “Is your heart set on the community center? It is a rather _large_ venue.”

Crowley forced himself to relax the hold he had on his tea cup, lest he shatter it. He knew exactly why she put so much emphasis on “large”; she was implying that he didn’t have enough friends to fill the community center. 

“The size of the venue is exactly why I need it. I plan on throwing a party for the whole village.” Michael looked genuinely taken-aback for a moment before her mask of a smile slipped back on. Crowley fought a victorious smirk. “You and your son, Warlock will be invited. Of course.”

“How… kind of you.” Crowley watched with glee as her smile became even more forced. 

“So, can I rent the community center? I am more than willing to pay for it up front, in cash.” 

_Shit._ Her evil glint had returned. “I am so very sorry, Anthony, but I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to rent the community center.”

Crowley’s jaw flexed. “Why not?”

“You have far too many complaints in your file. After a certain number of official complaints, residents are no longer eligible to rent village venues.”

“Who came up with that rule?” Crowley couldn’t help but snap. 

“I did.” Michael was no longer trying to hide the unfriendliness in her smile. 

Crowley took a deep breath. “Is there anything I can do to erase those complaints?” 

“I’m afraid not. None of the residents who filed those complaints live in Tadfield anymore.”

Crowley stood. “Well, there’s no point in taking up any more of your time then.”

“Hm, yes.” Michael set down her tea cup and walked him out.

By the time Crowley got home, he was itching to smash something.

⁂


	9. The Game Plan

⁂

Crowley was hosting more than one person at his home—an event which had never once happened during the entire five years he’d lived in Tadfield. 

Anathema was seated on the loveseat with Newt. She was absentmindedly clicking her pen as she stared down at the list she had been creating. Newt leaned over her shoulder, looking at the list. His eyebrows were scrunched and he mouthed the words as he read. Madame Tracy sipped her tea as she hummed thoughtfully. 

This motley bunch was Crowley’s party planning team. He’d invited them all over for an emergency meeting when Michael refused to let him rent the community center. 

“So what do we do next?” had been his question to the group. He paced and chewed at his nails. 

Anathema’s suggestion broke the silence. “We could try to rent one of the community centers from the neighboring villages.”

“Michael knows the other village councils pretty well,” Newt argued. “She might be able to influence their decision.”

Anathema hummed. “We could rent out a field and have large tent set up.”

“That might work.” Newt said brightly.

“No,” Madame Tracy said. “City council controls the renting of the two field venues in town, too.”

“Can’t I just have it here?” 

“You’d have to cut your guest list in half,” Anathema pointed out.

“And it would be a bit suspicious if you were setting up a party at your house. Aziraphale would surely notice it,” Tracy added. 

“Bollocks,” Crowley muttered. He was feeling rather hopeless now.

“If only there was a way to change Michael’s mind,” Newt sighed. 

Anathema snorted. “You’d need a miracle for that to happen.” 

“Or maybe just a specific person on your side.” Madame Tracy suddenly sat up straighter. 

“What?” Crowley asked, looking lost.

“Gabriel Godwin!” she announced.

“Gabriel?” Newt’s eyebrows were scrunched up even tighter, while Anathema’s were raised almost into her hairline. 

“Yes!” Tracy said, grinning. “The only person in the world that could change Michael’s mind is Gabriel. If you could convince _him_ to let you rent the venue, then Gabriel could convince Michael!”

“That’s mad,” Crowley rolled his eyes. “Gabriel is just the same as Michael.”

“Uh…” Newt began. He fidgeted in his seat and refused to make eye contact with anyone. Crowley squinted at him suspiciously: this was the way Newt always acted when he was hiding something. “I don’t think Gabriel is as similar to Michael as you think.” Newt and Anathema exchanged knowing looks. 

“How so?” Crowley asked, an eyebrow arched.

“Can’t say.” He shifted guiltily. 

“Uh huh.” Crowley wanted very much to question Newt until he broke. 

“Well!” Madame Tracy clapped her hands together causing all of them to jump a bit. “It’s settled: Crowley will got to Gabriel’s house and convince him to change Michael’s mind. Now let’s shift our attention to the menu. What do you plan on serving, Crowley?”

“Uh ...” Crowley turned a bit pink. He hadn’t even considered the food yet. This was going to be a long meeting.

⁂

Michael was running on the treadmill, her feet in rhythm to the beat of the song playing on her sporty wireless earbuds. Checking the monitor, she saw that her heart rate was reaching the optimum level for cardiac training, right on schedule. _Perfect._

Someone assumed position on the treadmill beside her. It was a silhouette and a running form she recognized. To say that Michael _disliked_ being interrupted during a workout would be an understatement. But it was happening, so the only thing she could do was handle it with her usual charismatic grace and aplomb.

She gradually slowed her machine to a stop, landing on a balanced step with both feet tightly together. She removed each earbud and stashed them carefully in her carrying case.

Her interruptor slowed his machine as well. 

“Hello, William.”

He fixed her with a guarded stare. “Michael.”

“Good to see you.”

“Indeed.” He leaned his chin over his crossed arms. “I’ve missed our morning runs. I’ve had to visit the gym more often to compensate.”

Michael doesn’t fidget, but her fingertips rubbed together involuntarily as she twirled the carrying case in her hands. “Yes. Unfortunate that our schedules haven’t lined up recently.”

“My schedule is more or less wide open,” he posited. “Seems like you’ve been unusually busy these days. Must be tough, running the city council and managing the PTA and all of that.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and her eyes darted toward the glass pane windows. Why couldn’t there ever be a traffic snarl or roaring siren when you needed one? “Yes, well. I’m very busy, you know. Lots to do. Always on the clock.”

“I know.” Damn, he could make his voice so soft when he wanted it to be. “Can I take you out to a café? I know the one down the street serves the yerba mate that you like.”

She didn’t chew her lip, but she wanted to. Instead, she made a big show of flipping through her phone calendar and sighed. “I do have a town hall meeting this afternoon. I hate to cut the workout short, but I suppose I could fit in a quick chat...” 

It was as close to a concession as he would get. He smiled a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Shall we?”

The café had a pleasant if slightly dark interior. Mr. Ligur chose a table up against a wall, near the back. Michael felt a small blip of gratitude. It’s not that she minded being in the public eye—in fact, she relished it. But if they must have this conversation in public, it was better that they do so quietly, with minimal fuss.

He returned with a steaming cup of yellow tea, as well as a latte for himself. “Can’t understand how you tolerate that stuff,” he prodded, a small smile rounding his cheeks. “It’s so bitter.”

She blew out the steam, pink-lipsticked lips forming a perfect purse. “You know, I had the most extraordinary conversation the other day. With Anthony Crowley, of all people.”

Michael was deflecting, and her interlocutor was fully aware, but he humored her. Despite his popular image as a stern and indifferent man, inside William’s chest beat the heart of an elderly gossip. “Oh? Do tell.” He’d never been fond of Crowley, though she couldn’t remember exactly what had soured William on him. It didn’t much matter, anyhow; Crowley had an uncanny knack for rubbing people the wrong way.

“He’s planning a party. And he had the nerve to come and ask _me_ if he could rent out the community center!” Michael doesn’t giggle, either, but a devilish spark lit her eyes.

William sipped his coffee. He’d always had a secondhand enjoyment of her _schadenfreude._ “Did you tell him he’s a menace to society, and he’ll never set foot in the Tadfield Community Center as long as he lives?”

“Not in so many words, but that was the gist.” She twitched her nose, the way she did when she was pleased with herself.

“Ms. Godwin,” he smiled wickedly, “you are a force to be reckoned with.”

“Thank you.” There it was again, that melancholy look in his eyes as he watched her. She wished he would stop it. It was dreadfully unbecoming.

He passed his empty coffee cup with its neat coaster to the side, so there could be no distraction between himself and his conversational partner. “Michael. I believe you’ve been avoiding me.”

She’d been expecting it, but it still felt like a blow. His voice was gentle, gentler than it had any right to be. For one of just a handful of times in her life, Michael Godwin was speechless.

“Is it something I’ve done?” he continued. “I’d like to make amends, or at least apologize. But I can’t do that if I don’t know what happened.”

William Ligur was not a shareholder, or a contractor, or a bidder, or even much of a community leader (though he did a remarkable job managing the local grocery store). Right now, he was just a man—a man who, for some reason, she couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing.

She steeled herself. She was stronger than this. “No, dear. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I think I understand.” The pure pain in his voice almost made her give in, but she held firm. “I won’t keep you any longer. May I kiss you goodbye?”

She took the initiative, rose from her seat and pressed her pristine pout to his cheek. The color was so heavily shellacked that it didn’t even leave a mark behind.

⁂

It was almost comical to Crowley that _Gabriel Godwin_ of all people was his last hope of ever getting the perfect venue for Aziraphale’s party. He wasn’t particularly optimistic about this meeting; Michael and Gabriel were very alike in their opinions about him. At least Crowley had slightly more in common with Gabriel—they both enjoyed gardening. 

And Gabriel _really_ enjoyed gardening. As little as Crowley cared to know anything about Mr. Godwin, he was aware that the man had a horticultural obsession. Everybody knew it. 

Gabriel’s front garden had far more personality than Michael’s—his begonias were particularly stunning and Crowley felt an ever so slight sting of jealousy over them—though he still preferred his own garden, of course. Crowley hadn’t been sure what to bring to this meeting. Flowers had some... _implications._ He had finally settled on bringing some fresh tomatoes he had picked this morning. 

At long last, he steeled himself to knock on his neighbor’s pristine white door. To his embarrassment, he noticed the front of his black button down was rumpled. He frantically smoothed it with his hands and tried to tuck it into his trousers. He knocked a quick rap.

There was no response. 

Crowley glanced at Gabriel’s car parked in the driveway, just to confirm that he was home. Maybe Gabriel hadn’t heard him? He knocked again and waited for what seemed like an eternity. He was just about to turn away and try again tomorrow when he heard the door creak open. 

“Hel—,” Crowley froze mid-sentence. Gabriel looked… Gabriel looked like _shit._ Crowley had never seen him look anything but perfect, but the Gabriel standing in front of him was far from his usual perfect self. He was dressed in a dark purple bathrobe (it was three in the afternoon), his hair was standing on end and a bit greasy, he was unshaven, and had huge dark circles under his puffy eyes.

“Crowley? What are you doing here?” Gabriel asked. His voice was raspy like he hadn’t used it in awhile.

“I uh… I came here to ask you for a favor.” Crowley felt completely thrown off. “Are you sick? Should I come back later?”

Gabriel rubbed at his eyes, “I’m not sick. You can come in.” 

Crowley didn’t feel so sure that coming in was such a good idea when Gabriel was obviously going through something, but he followed Gabriel inside. 

All the curtains in the house were drawn. The house, which Crowley suspected looked very nice most days, was in total disarray. Clothes were haphazardly strewn around the house. In the living room, where Crowley was led, there were piles of plates and takeout containers on the coffee and end tables. The room was dim with only a few lamps on for light. Crowley felt like he was intruding on a mental health break or something. 

“Are you sure you’re okay? I can come back later,” Crowley repeated, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. 

“I’m fine,” Gabriel said. His voice was bone-tired, like he’d just dragged himself up from a midday nap. “What can I help you with?” Gabriel seemed to be trying to put on his normal toothy smile—it was failing.

Crowley was feeling a bit out of his depth but straightened up and tried his best to put on his politest smile. “I’m throwing a party on September 7th and I was hoping to rent out the community center—”

“Michael deals with that,” Gabriel interrupted. Crowley watched as he scrounged through the takeout tower. Crowley suppressed a cringe as Gabriel pulled out a half-eaten egg roll and popped the rest of it into his mouth. 

“I know. I already went to speak with her, and she said that she couldn’t rent it to me,” Crowley said. He was mystified by this previously unseen side of Gabriel. What could possibly be so wrong with the man that he was living like this?

“Probably because of all the complaints.” Gabriel wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. 

“Well, yeah. But I was hoping you could convince her to let me rent it anyway. You’re the only person in town she listens to, and this party is very important to me,” Crowley said earnestly. 

“Why are you throwing a party?” Gabriel looked genuinely curious. 

Michael had never asked why Crowley wanted to throw a party, and he was honestly glad she hadn’t. Telling her that he wanted to throw a party for Aziraphale would have given her even more reason not to let him have the venue. Now, he realized that he would have to explain to Gabriel why he wanted to throw this party. He wasn’t sure he felt totally comfortable sharing his feelings about why this party was important to him, but he supposed the worst that could happen was that Gabriel would say no. Then he and Michael would have more to talk about during their gossip sessions. 

“I’m throwing a surprise party for Aziraphale, to make up for the mess at his garden party.” Crowley tried for simple and hoped Gabriel would accept it.

“Why on Earth would you go to all that trouble?” Gabriel asked, then added, “He’s just your neighbor, after all.”

Crowley could feel the indignation rising. “He isn’t just my neighbor, he’s my... he’s my _friend!_ And he deserves to feel like the people in this bloody village actually want him to stay here!” He scowled at Gabriel. Gabriel stared back, looking mildly confused, like he just couldn’t figure out why Crowley was so upset. 

“That’s a very... noble sentiment,” Gabriel said slowly. Then he straightened, like a thought had suddenly occurred to him, “How could you possibly plan a party and prepare for the garden contest at the same time? The contest is a week before the party!”

Crowley huffed out a sigh, “It’s just a contest; if I don’t win this year it doesn’t matter. It’s not the end of the world.”

“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?!” Gabriel practically shouted. Crowley couldn’t help jumping slightly at the sudden noise. “You’re the reigning champion! We’re rivals! You have... but you…” Gabriel suddenly slumped, looking very lost.

“It’s just a silly contest.” Crowley hoped his tone of voice sounded comforting.

“It’s not just a contest... it’s my whole life,” Gabriel said softly.

Crowley blinked, then blinked again. He wasn’t totally sure what to say, he hadn’t been imagining this conversation going this way. “There has to be other things in your life?” 

Gabriel sniffled. Oh god, was he going to start crying? Crowley couldn’t do crying. “Not anymore,” Gabriel said miserably. 

“Uh…” Seriously? What was Crowley supposed to say? He suddenly wished Aziraphale was here; maybe he could figure out what the fuck was wong with Gabriel.

They sat there in awkward silence for a long moment until Gabriel lifted his head and tentatively asked, “Is Aziraphale more important to you than your garden?”

It was a weird question, but Crowley was mostly just thankful Gabriel wasn’t crying. “Of course he is. The garden is just a hobby. Aziraphale is... the best friend I’ve ever had.” He really was Crowley’s best friend, and saying that out loud made Crowley’s cheeks go warm and his chest feel tight. 

Gabriel was staring at him with wide eyes. “How could I have been such an idiot?” he whispered to himself as Crowley felt more and more confused. 

“About the party—” Crowley began, hoping to steer them back on topic. 

“Oh! The party. Yes, I’ll speak with Michael and I’ll call you when I get the confirmation from her.” Gabriel beamed at him and then stood suddenly. His whole face had changed—he looked almost like the Gabriel Crowley was used to.

“Oh, uh—thank you!” Crowley stood too, not having any clue what was happening.

Gabriel hurriedly walked him walked him back to the front door. On the front step Gabriel vigorously shook Crowley’s hand, saying, “I cannot thank you enough for the advice you gave me today. If you need any help with your party, please don’t hesitate to call me.” 

“Uh, sure.” Crowley said stupidly. He didn’t remember giving Gabriel any advice. This was the weirdest conversation he’d ever had in his entire life, hands down. At least he was getting his venue. A disorienting conversation was a small price to pay, for that.

⁂


	10. The Starlit Night

⁂

Sure enough, come Saturday morning, there was a terse note in fine handwriting. It read:

_Venue’s yours. Don’t use Gabriel to call in any more favors. And don’t make me regret this._

_—Michael._

Crowley did a happy dance beside his post box.

⁂

“So,” Anathema set aside her tea cup. She had invited Aziraphale over to take a look at one of her school papers, but now that they were finished she was ready to broach a topic that had been weighing on her mind. “I’ve heard that you’ve been seeing a lot of Crowley recently?”

Aziraphale blinked owlishly. He had been idly flipping through some of her schoolbooks. “Uh, yes. We’ve become rather good friends.”

Anathema arched an eyebrow. “Just friends?” She had enjoyed seeing their friendship develop, but she was now impatiently waiting for them to figure out that they were _into_ each other. Perhaps a gentle nudge would help.

He spluttered and turned an interesting shade of red. “Well, I—uh, I mean…” Aziraphale looked away and scratched awkwardly at his neck. 

Anathema watched him in amusement. “Not that it’s any of my business, but you two would make a lovely couple.” 

Aziraphale turned redder, if that was even possible. Anathema suppressed a grin. He was rather adorable when he was flustered. 

“Yes, well…” Aziraphale mumbled.

“ _Do_ you like him?” she asked. Aziraphale’s eyes flickered towards hers for a moment.. “You can tell me. I won’t gossip about it to the rest of town,” she promised. Although, she wouldn’t be surprised if she wasn’t the only person that had noticed the obvious attraction between the two. 

Aziraphale remained silent for a moment before leaning forward, as though preparing to tell a secret. “I do like him, quite a bit actually,” he said softly. 

Anathema smiled. “Do you plan on doing anything about it?”

“I’d like to, but I’ve never been particularly good at... well, intimate relationships and ‘dating’.” He smiled wanly. “I don’t want to ruin what we already have.”

Anathema reached out a hand and gently laid it on his arm. “I don’t think you’ll ruin anything. Crowley obviously likes you back.”

“He does?”

“Of course he does! How could he not?” She winked at Aziraphale, causing him to giggle. 

“I wouldn’t even know how to approach him,” he admitted. 

“I think a straightforward approach would be best. Crowley can be a bit ‘thick-headed,’ as Newt puts it. Maybe ask him out to dinner or something?” Anathema suggested. It would be hard to misinterpret a dinner date invitation. 

“Oh, yes. That could work.” Aziraphale said thoughtfully. “There’s this little Italian restaurant I’ve been wanting to try nearby, in Oxford.”

“Perfect!” Anathema grinned. _Success,_ she thought.

⁂

Aziraphale had been staring at his phone for perhaps longer than he should have been. He had been preparing himself all day to call Crowley and ask him on a _date._ Aziraphale could feel his heart beating quickly in his chest when he thought about asking Crowley on an actual date. Of course, he and Crowley had gone out to dinner before, but that was just as friends!

Aziraphale took a huge fortifying breath. _Here goes nothing._

“Hullo?” Crowley’s voice crackled over the flimsy connection. Aziraphale couldn’t suppress the smile that bloomed across his face.

“Hello, Crowley! How are you?” 

“I’m fine. What’s up?”

Aziraphale absentmindedly wrapped the phone cord around his finger. “Are you busy tomorrow evening? I was wondering if you would like to accompany me to dinner. My treat.” 

“Sure.” Well, that was easy.

“Ah, it’s , Luce Stellare over in Oxford.”

“Great. Okay.”

He winced. “Oh, I nearly forgot. We’ll need some way to get there. I do think there’s a bus that runs in the afternoons. It might be a bit early, though...”

“Not to worry. I’ll drive.”

Aziraphale beamed, too excited at the prospect to remember what he’d planned to say next.

“I’ll pick you up around seven?”

“It’s a date then!” Aziraphale couldn’t help but giggle as he hung up the phone. 

He had a date with Crowley!

⁂

Aziraphale ran his fingers through his hair and fluffed up his curls. _Finally ready._ He’d spent the last half-hour pacing the floor of his cottage so fervently he’d almost worn a circle into the threadbare rug. He took occasional breaks to pop over to the mirror and fuss over some aspect of his outfit. When had he turned so vain? After almost an hour of agonizing over his clothes, he’d finally decided on a pale-blue pinstriped seersucker blazer with matching trousers and a pastel striped bowtie. He privately regretted choosing so many stripes, but he was tired of thinking about it.

Six fifty-five was close enough to seven, wasn’t it? He stepped outside his front door and took a fortifying breath of the evening air. Trying to appear casual, he leaned over the banister on his porch and pretended that he couldn’t see the Bentley still stubbornly parked in front of Crowley’s. He could be calm, he could be patient, he could be ‘cool’. For entertainment, he watched the seconds hand crawl its way around the face of his gold wristwatch. He nearly stopped breathing between each tick, certain that his anxiety alone had caused time to freeze and that the next second would never arrive.

The hum of a motor released him from his purgatory. Sweet relief washed over him like a cool breeze. 

Crowley drove the scant handful of meters over to Aziraphale’s and exited the vehicle. “You coming, then?”

He opened his mouth to reply but was momentarily blindsided by how absolutely _ravishing_ Crowley looked. He was wearing some sort of silver blazer ( _almost_ a color, impressive by Crowley’s standards!), a pair of black wide-legged trousers that suited his shape perfectly, and short heeled boots. Aziraphale worried that the two of them might look ill-matched. Was his own outfit frumpy by comparison? He trotted out to the car but was brought up short, too nervous to look at Crowley and almost afraid to get in.

“Nice tie.” Crowley tugged at Aziraphale’s stripey bow, a half-grin turning up the corner of his mouth. His sunglasses were folded and perched on the collar of his shirt, resting on the placket just above the breastbone. Aziraphale saw that his eyes were smiling, too, and he momentarily forgot how to breathe.

“You look lovely, my dear,” he said when he finally regained the ability to speak. 

“Thanks. You look good, too.” Aziraphale blushed and couldn’t help the pleased smile that spread across his face.

⁂

Aziraphale tapped his foot nervously as Crowley drove them to the restaurant. His mind had gone horribly blank and he couldn’t think of a single thing to stay to Crowley. Was he supposed to flirt now? Or should he wait until they got to the restaurant? What was one supposed to talk about on a date? In films the debonair protagonists always asked questions to get to know the other person better, but Aziraphale already knew a lot about Crowley, or so he thought.

But did he _really?_ He suddenly couldn’t remember any of Crowley’s hobbies, or what colors he liked, or whether he even enjoyed Italian food after all. Did he? Maybe Crowley _hated_ Italian food and had only said yes to dinner to be polite. He pulled at his collar, which now seemed much too tight. How was one meant to flirt, anyway? He’d done some reading on flirting techniques in the days leading up to the date, but now his head was as empty as the day he was born. The most he’d done so far was tell Crowley how nice he looked. After that he had completely clammed up. His palms were sweating now, and he tried to surreptitiously wipe them off on his trousers without drawing attention. 

Aziraphale stole a glance at Crowley, who didn’t seem to notice Aziraphale’s inner turmoil. Perhaps Crowley had more experience with dating and such. Aziraphale couldn’t help but stare at Crowley. He wasn’t doing anything particularly interesting, just humming quietly as he drove but, my goodness, was he stunning even when he was doing nothing. 

Crowley turned suddenly, catching Aziraphale staring. He didn’t seem to mind, he just quirked an eyebrow at Aziraphale. “Problem?”

Should he tell him how handsome he looked just now? Oh, that was probably too soon. “Ah, I was just, erm, curious about your jacket.” He tittered, drunk on nerves.

“It’s satin. You can feel it, if you like.” He proffered his left arm for a touch, his right laid confidently over the steering wheel.

 _Can I?_ He ran his hand over the silky material. It seemed to give under his palm like water, snag-free and buttery. Crowley’s arm was warm and strong underneath. Realizing that this was probably too much touching, he returned his hands in gentlemanly fashion to his lap.

“Are we getting close?” his driver queried.

Aziraphale examined the GPS directions he had printed out this morning. “Oh, yes. Just a left turn up here and we’ll be there.” 

⁂

‘Mr. Fell,’ as he’d booked the reservation, fidgeted with his menu. He kept lowering it to peek at Crowley, who appeared engrossed in the options. “Ah, _escargot._ Fancy a plate?”

He made a face. “I’ve killed far too many garden snails to ever consider eating one.”

“Well, they’re very good.” He scanned the options. “What about a serving of fondue? They have Gruyère and white wine.”

“Can’t say I’ve eaten it often. Kind of greasy, isn’t it?”

“Oh, it’s divine!” His eyes were starry. Crowley looked unconvinced. “You’ll see.”

They placed the order and sat for what felt like millenia. Aziraphale resisted the urge to keep checking his watch, just for something to do. Crowley slurped at his wine glass, looking around at the intimate-borderline-crowded interior of the restaurant. The faux Venetian architecture seemed to wind around itself in an infinite number of arches. It gave one the illusion of being trapped in a maze of Italian-ish artwork.

“So. I noticed that Ms. Tracy and Ms. Anathema have visited your house often in the last few weeks. And Newton, of course! Now what are you four up to?” He’d hoped for a tone approximating ‘playful, conspiratorial’ and worried he’d landed a bit near to ‘desperate’. It was odd, the way Crowley had started sneaking around with those three. He was a bit hurt that they never invited him to whatever clandestine gatherings they were having. After all, they were _his_ friends too, weren’t they?

Crowley shook his head. “It’s, ah, nothing you’d be interested in.”

“I’m interested in lots of things!” He wriggled forward in his chair, grateful that Crowley was finally paying attention to him.

He rubbed the back of his neck, the way he always did when he was anxious about something. “Uh, I’m not supposed to talk about it. Confidential, and all that.”

Aziraphale pouted. Crowley usually let him get his way without this much resistance. “I do hope everyone is all right? I’d feel dreadful if any of our friends were in some kind of trouble. I can help, you know! And I won’t breathe a word of it to a single soul.” He clasped his hands under his chin and implored Crowley with his eyes.

“All right, all right.” He held up his hands in surrender. “It’s a sort of... relationship counselling.”

Aziraphale was stricken, and he clutched at his chest. “Oh, dear!”

“It’s nothing serious!” Crowley waved his hands about as if to placate him. “Everything’s fine. We’re, uh, working it out, so to speak. But it’s sort of a sensitive subject. You know how people talk.”

“I see.” He tried for an understanding smile, but he felt deflated. Had his new friends not trusted him enough to share how they were struggling? Perhaps he’d made them feel unsafe, somehow...

“Your meal, sirs.” A bubbling pot of fondue was placed between them by a waiter with a comically stiff moustache.

“Much appreciated. Thank you.” Aziraphale smoothed out the napkin that was already expectantly unfolded in his lap.

“Thank God, I’m starving.” Without further ado, Crowley scooped up a slice of bread and dunked it in the molten cheese. Aziraphale gawked at him, a fondue fork in each of his hands, mouth fallen open slightly.

Crowley noticed his tablemate’s silence and separated from the joy of his food to look up at Aziraphale, whose surprised eyes were resolutely fixed on him. He set down his crust, looking almost apologetic. “I’ve buggered it again, haven’t I?”

Aziraphale’s answering smile was beatific. “You’re doing wonderfully.”

He scanned his partner and winced as he noticed the spare cutlery. “Was I supposed to use that fork?” Crowley gestured to the one in Aziraphale’s hand.

He shrugged. “I hardly think it matters. Do you like it?”

Crowley nodded. “It’s pretty good. Better than I was expecting.”

As their meal progressed, Crowley filled Aziraphale in on all the town gossip that Newt had told him recently. He wasn’t quite as good as Newt when it came to remembering details, but he could make the stories very entertaining. Aziraphale spent most of the dinner laughing helplessly as Crowley told him animated story after story. More than a few times Aziraphale had made Crowley pause a story so he could wipe his watering eyes. He felt the keyed-up anxious energy in his body dissipate as he watched his friend’s antics. He no longer remembered why he had been so worried before. It was so _easy_ to be around Crowley. 

When the check came, Aziraphale quickly snapped it up. “My treat, remember,” he said, with what he hoped was a flirtatious wink. 

Crowley acquiesced, leaning back in his chair and looking thoroughly comfortable. While they waited for the waitress to bring back his card Aziraphale said, “I hope you don’t mind, but there was somewhere else I wanted to go before we retire for the night.”

“Lead on.” 

⁂

They exited the restaurant satiated and sleepy, the Bentley proudly waiting for them. It was half-past eight, and the cooling twilight was now in full force, blanketing the afternoon orange in soft blue. Crowley revved the engine, breaking the stillness that had descended upon the street.

“So, where are we going?” 

He fidgeted and squinted at the now-creased papers in his lap. “Turn right up ahead, I believe.”

They went as far north as Canterbury Road, before turning back around and heading south down Banbury onto Parks.

“I think you’re leading us in circles,” Crowley accused.

“Be patient! Stop here.”

They parked at the Natural History museum and wandered south past Bodleian Library with its imposing parapets. Aziraphale took point along the curve of High Street with Crowley matching his stride, looking more intrigued with every twist in their journey. 

A thick stone archway loomed up before the path. Aziraphale paused, apparently out of breath.

“The botanic gardens?” Crowley asked. “I hate to disappoint, but I think they’ll be closed this time of night.”

“I have a favor to call in. With a friend.” Aziraphale scoured his pocket for his cell phone and upon finding it, dialed each number by jabbing at it with his forefinger.

Crowley chuckled. “I didn’t even know you had a cell phone.”

“Shhh!” He held up a hand for silence, using the other to smash the device against his ear. “Yes, dear, it’s me. Can you come let us in, please? Yes, I do know what time it is. Thank you ever so much.” He hung up and the phone disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.

His companion whistled, looking around the lavender sky with his hands in his trouser pockets. “Posh friends you must have.”

“Perks of dealing in rare books.” He allowed himself a small, smug smile. “Researchers flock to me like... well, like academics to academic texts.”

 _“Intriguing.”_ His eyebrows danced in sync as if they had recently discovered the disco. Crowley was having a bit of fun at his expense, he knew, but Aziraphale couldn’t help the warm flush that graced his cheeks at the sound of his mock praise.

Their conversation was interrupted by the interposition of a stern professorly type. Aziraphale moved to greet her with a kiss on the cheek.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. —?” 

“It’s _Dr._ Engel, to you,” she said coldly, grasping Crowley’s hand in what appeared to be a very firm grip.

Aziraphale intervened. “Uriel, please! This is my very good friend, Crowley. I’d just hoped to show him around the university gardens since we happened to be in town.” He fixed her with his most charming angelic expression.

“Oh, all right.” She sighed and unlocked the heavy iron gate with a set of keys. “I need to get back to my work; I have dissertations to revise. Close the gate behind you before you leave.” Aziraphale winked enthusiastically at Crowley behind her back.

Without a single other visitor, the gardens were so still that you could hear a pin drop. Aziraphale watched Crowley as he meandered around the central fountain, eyes drinking in the scenery. There were a few late-season blooms splashed across the elaborately arranged garden beds.

“It’s beautiful,” Crowley said. “I can’t believe I’ve never been.”

Aziraphale stayed quiet as Crowley walked around the garden, singling out the plants he recognized and naming them for Aziraphale's benefit.

“Do you have a favorite plant?” Aziraphale asked Crowley. 

Crowley stopped walking as he contemplated the question. “I don’t know. I love them all.” He flashed Aziraphale a quick smile. “I think you asking me what my favorite plant is, would be like me asking _you_ what your favorite book is.”

“You’re right. I couldn’t possibly choose.” 

They resumed their peaceful stroll. Aziraphale wondered if this might be a good time to take Crowley’s arm. He found himself staring down at the limb, mind jumbled with nervous thoughts. 

“N-nice night for it, isn’t it? Being out and about.” He could tell he wasn’t making any sense, but he was struggling to organise his thoughts. “Look, even the stars are out.”

“You know, I learned an absurd amount about stars and planets and all that as a child. I was going to go away to Russia or America or maybe even China and become an astronaut.” He wandered far out of arms’ reach as his eyes remained fixed on the heavens, smiling a crooked little smile as he remembered his childhood folly. “I thought, surely at least one of those alien planets would have room for someone like me on it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about the stars,” Aziraphale murmured, careful not to break the moment. 

“Would you like me to point out the constellations for you?”

“Oh, please do!”

“Looks like we've got Aquarius, Lyra, Cygnus, Pegasus...” He turned on his heel as he named each one in turn like they were familiar friends. Aziraphale followed him, shielding his eyes to see them better. “Shame about all the light in town. If we could go out where it’s _really_ dark, we could see thousands more.”

“Would you want to?” Aziraphale swallowed. “I mean, would you want to go out somewhere and see the stars? Properly, I mean.”

Moonlight had bleached Crowley’s face a ghostly white. But as he grinned up at the sky, celestial light dancing in his eyes, he looked more alive than ever. “Yes. I think I’d like that.”

⁂


	11. The Begonia Bandits

⁂

Crowley found himself being dragged involuntarily into consciousness. He’d been having the most wonderful dream, about—

—no, that hurt too much. He sat up in bed, and then immediately hunched back over. Perhaps he’d been overdoing it on the wine last night.

He could hardly be blamed, regardless. Aziraphale had been overdoing it, too; too shiny, too bright, too handsome in his ridiculous suit, with his perfect little manners and his perfect little smile. The overall effect was, he hated to say it, _adorable._

Crowley wondered whether his friend was feeling all right lately. He had been so quiet all evening. Aziraphale was known for many things, but taciturnity was not one of them. He’d hardly looked at Crowley the whole night through. Maybe Crowley had done something to upset him? He hadn’t come off as especially sad or angry though, just... stressed. Perhaps work was getting to him, though Crowley couldn’t see what an independent bookseller had to worry about, career-wise. Not like he was obliged to plan on climbing any corporate ladders. Financial trouble? Aziraphale hadn’t brought up anything of the sort with him before, but Crowley knew that some people could be sensitive about money matters. Or maybe he just had a stomachache.

It had been sweet of Aziraphale to go to all the trouble of organizing their evening, though. Crowley somehow couldn’t believe he’d never been to the university’s gardens before. What a collection they had! And the stargazing had been lovely, too. He had almost forgotten the days he’d spent mapping out sky charts in those enormous fold-out pamphlets, painstakingly arranging glow-in-the-dark stars and sticking them to the ceiling with the help of a wobbly stepladder and a lot of adhesive putty. Crowley had gotten in trouble for trying to wear a little plastic astronaut helmet everywhere, even on the school bus. He laughed, remembering the seriousness with which he had proclaimed he’d be ‘the first Briton in space’. 

Aziraphale had seemed to enjoy the stargazing, too: he’d even been the one to suggest going somewhere more properly dark so they could see the sky better. Crowley planned to hold him to it; they would surely have time to go out again before the nights got too cold. There was a spot down at Birling Gap in East Sussex he’d been to once or twice when he was young, and he longed to see it again.

After a moment’s reluctance, and post-consumption of a stern pot of black coffee, Crowley (sporting sunglasses and carrying Crawly) dragged himself out to his back patio to soak up the late-morning sun. On a dingy legal pad, he started scribbling down notes concerning everything that still needed to be done before the party, whose date was set for only a few short weeks in the future. Crowley had already decided that he’d need to go out of town to book the caterer, florist, and band. Perhaps Aziraphale could come over and watch Crawly for him? He gave the snake draped over his shoulders a little absent-minded pat. 

He made a note to ask Aziraphale about it soon. 

Crowley had been happy to check off the venue from his seemingly never-ending list; no venue would have meant no party. He supposed he should do something to thank Gabriel. How were people meant to thank their neighbors? A gift basket? He made a note to ask Madame Tracy about it. 

Speaking of Madame Tracy, the esteemed woman, Anathema, and Newt were all set to address party invitations. The pricey bits of paper had already come in the mail, and Crowley’s hardworking assistants planned to come over tomorrow with Madame Tracy’s handy address book and write out invitations to the whole village. 

Crowley was making a note to buy some snacks for tomorrow when his bushes began shaking and... _talking._ Again.

“All right, come out of there,” Crowley groaned, addressing his garrulous greenery.

One by one the Them appeared from the bushes—each wearing wide, mischievous smiles.

“What are you hooligans doing in my garden?”

“What are you doing, Mr. Crowley?” Adam asked. 

“None of your business,” he answered with a childish _snff!_

“Is it top-secret?” Brian asked, with interest. There was nothing more interesting to a child then a secret—especially one kept by an adult. 

“Yes.” 

Their faces lit up. “Oh! You have to tell us!” Pepper exclaimed. 

“Absolutely not.” Crowley pulled his notebook a little closer to his body, shielding it with his arm. He glared at them. “If I told you, you’d tell the whole blasted village.”

The Them exchanged looks. “We won’t!” they protested, practically in unison. Adam gave him particularly effective puppy-dog eyes.

“Oh, all right,” Crowley relented. He’d always had a soft spot for kids. “But if you tell a soul, I’ll feed you to Crawly.” Right on cue the serpent lifted her head and gave a soft hiss. 

“We swear,” Adam said seriously. The rest of the Them nodded along. 

“I’m throwing a party for Aziraphale. He is _not_ to know about it, you understand?” They continued nodding, the effect much like watching a row of little bobble-head toys. 

“Can we help, Mr. Crowley?” Wensley piped up.

“I love secrets. I’m the best at them,” Pepper informed him.

He scoffed. “What could you lot do for me? Annoy everyone so they don’t bother showing up?”

Brian crossed his arms. “That’s not fair.”

“Won’t you need decorations, food, that sort of thing? Party hats. Favors. Cakes. Crisps.” Adam looked rather pleased with himself for his brilliance. The others ‘mm’ed and ‘ooh’ed. (They were all very fond of crisps).

Crowley shook his head, tapping he pen against his front teeth. “Nah. I’ve got all that covered.”

“Where?” Adam made a show of looking around the premises. “Seems like you don’t have much.” He raised an eyebrow, as if to say _your game._

“Fine. You all want to be in my Secret Party-Planning Army, is that it?” They cheered. Crowley strutted back and forth like a drill sergeant lording his status over the young privates. The Them stood at attention, or as best as they could muster. Brian itched at his leg. “You have orders to go out and find some things for Aziraphale’s party. Whatever you can scrounge up. But it has to be really nice. Nothing half-cocked.”

Wensley raised his hand. “But Mr. Crowley, sir, what kind of things does Mr. Fell think are ‘nice’?”

“Yeah.” Adam already looked on the verge of mutiny. “People have their own tastes, you know.”

“Um—” Crowley refused to admit he didn’t exactly know what Aziraphale liked, or wanted, beyond the general aesthetic that the bookseller cultivated for himself. Especially not to this group of wayward runts. “Books. Flowers. Little pieces of art. That sort of thing. Now, you’ve only got a week to get this all together, so get going!” He clapped his hands together sharpish.

They gave him a series of approximate salutes, then took off with Adam’s red wagon trundling behind them.

⁂

Results the first few days were mixed, at best. The Them found a really spectacular big stick out in the woods. Brian thought that it looked like a pretty cool lizard, so into the wagon it went. Pepper was the one to find a near half-bushel of R. P. Tyler’s pears which had rolled juuuust close enough to the fence boundary to not really be considered ‘stealing.’ Only a small few actually made it back to Crowley’s house in one piece, but they _had_ been exceptionally juicy.

Adam found a flattish heart-shaped rock lying in the middle of the road. They’d taken it to Pepper’s, where they had decorated it with the help of an arts-and-crafts kit given to her by some hapless older relative, probably an aunt, for her birthday. (That year, she’d asked for a football.) Onto the rock went a copious amount of pink paint, glitter, and a very smartly curled pipe-cleaner moustache. They all agreed it looked great. Wensley put googly eyes on the lizard-branch.

Upon their return, Crowley surveyed their findings with an appraiser’s eye. “Hmm. Very fine work.” He hefted the rock in his hand, careful not to dislodge the handlebar ‘stache which was hanging by a thread. “It’s a start, but we need something big. A showstopper.” He looked each of them in the eye. “Can you do this for me?”

“Yes, sir!” they chorused.

“All right. Go find the _pièce de résistance,_ then meet back here. Got it?”

⁂

The foursome made a loopy zigzag down the neighborhood streets. It was dog-days-of-summer hot, the sticky-sweet kind of hot that made sweat run down your chin and encouraged you to lie down on the middle of the asphalt and just give up on everything. Still, they persisted.

Gabriel had the unfortunate luck to be standing in his garden this late summer afternoon. He was watering his hedges with the Precision Mist™ attachment of his watering hose, and talking loudly to someone on his expensive-looking cell phone.

“Crowley. Yeah, Anthony. What other ‘Crowley’ do you know about?” He waved his watering arm about, accidentally enabling a light rainfall on his own head. “The contest? I wouldn’t worry about the contest one _single_ bit.” He laughed in a way that was distinctly ‘evil cackle’.

The four young people on the edge of his lawn privately seethed. 

“First of all, Crowley’s garden is way better than Gabriel’s!” Pepper groused. “There’s no way stupid Gabriel would win.”

“It’s science,” Wenley pointed out.

Adam looked deep in thought. The other three watched the changing moods of his face intently. The outcome of this would probably be a brilliant invention or an exciting new game.

Slowly, he suggested: “Do you think Mr. Godwin is going to eliminate the competition?”

“Eliminate how?” Brian asked.

Adam drew a solemn line across his throat.

The mouths of the other three dropped open. It was almost too plausible. Not only was Crowley the coolest adult in the whole town, Gabriel was definitely the evilest. 

Mr. Godwin was probably capable of anything. They wondered what he was going to try and do to Crowley. Kidnap him and carry him off for a ransom? Put a ball and chain on his leg and make him work in his garden forever, like an old prisoner? Tell him his dad died and it was his fault so he’d have to run away from Tadfield and never look back? They shivered. It was atrocious.

It was time for revenge, carried out preemptively. It was time to strike _first._

They pondered what to do, until Adam got the gleam in his eye that told the other three he’d decided on their game for the day. They waited with bated breath.

“Soldiers,” he announced. “Ready your shovels. The battle begins.”

⁂

Gabriel awoke the next morning to find that each of the prize begonias lining his front walk had been replaced by a neat little hole.

He screamed.

⁂

Crowley opened his front door and found an abandoned red wagon, bereft of the Them. 

A motley assortment of pink-and-red begonias were deposited in a sort-of-order in the red wagon.

He recognized those flowers. He knew exactly which house they belonged to. He was about to have a _very_ long day.

⁂

“But he was going to _kidnap_ you!” Pepper protested.

Wensley bounced on the balls of his feet with nervous excitement. “Or cast evil spells on you, like a witch!”

“Maybe turn you into a toad,” Brian suggested.

“ ‘Sides, they’re really nice flowers. And you just said we had to find something good for the party,” Adam glowered. He strongly disliked being chastised for anything, especially when he felt he was in the right.

Crowley held firm. “No stealing.” _Even if it is hilarious._ “Not even from Gabriel Godwin.”

“But what are we supposed to do, then?” Brian asked.

He crossed his arms and gave them all a disapproving look from behind his sunglasses. “You young thieves are going to go with me and apologize to Gabriel personally, and return all the flowers you stole.” He shifted his weight and scratched his chin like he’d just thought of something. “Ach, we better go to the plant shop and pick up a houseplant for him.” _There’s a good chance the begonias won’t survive replanting._

⁂

“All right, you lot. Be on your least terrible behavior and let me do the talking. Gabriel is... not a forgiving man. He’ll probably yell and shout at you, so just be prepared for it.” Crowley tugged at his collar and adjusted the potted fern in the crook of his elbow. The Them trailed behind him. Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale all looked faintly anxious. Adam never looked afraid of anything.

Gabriel watched from his front window as Crowley and his gaggle of children trundled up his front walk with a red wagon in tow. 

He stepped out onto the porch and cut off their approach. Hands behind his back, he tilted his head at an angle. His face gave little away. He looked more like his usual self than he had the last time Crowley had seen him: combed and cleanly pressed, sporting a navy blue linen blazer and khakis.

“Hi, Mr. Gabriel,” the Them mumbled.

“Hello.”

Crowley nudged Adam, who stepped out in front. “We stole all your flowers, and that was mean and rude of us.”

“We really are sorry, Mr. Gabriel!” Wensley enthused.

“Shouldn’t have done it,” Pepper and Brian mumbled, looking away.

Wensleydale pushed up his glasses. “You’re not going to kidnap Mr. Crowley and make him work in your garden forever, are you?”

Gabriel shot a glance at Crowley, who shrugged as if to say _I have no idea where they get these wild ideas from._

He sighed. “Come inside.”

The Them looked to Crowley for guidance, who nodded and gestured that they should follow him in.

Either Gabriel had hired a professional maid service, or he was finally getting his act together, Crowley noted with interest. Now cleaned, his house resembled Michael’s much more, albeit with a few humanizing touches. There were lightly upholstered chairs that looked as though a human being had actually sat in them at least once during the past few months. A half-finished cup of tea and a half-eaten croissant rested on a leather ottoman alongside a carefully folded newspaper. There were no photographs to be seen; not even portraits or family group photos. Despite being assembled entirely of exquisite minimalist furniture pieces, there were few other expressions of aesthetics to be found in this room. No art hung on the walls, no colorful tchotchkes occupied secret nooks.

Their host rolled out a large piece of butcher paper and tore it with a dramatic _rrrrip!_ He layered it over the kitchen table. “The plants won’t survive a replanting now, it’s too late in the summer,” he explained. “We’re going to trick the plants into thinking it’s winter, and then we’re going to dry out the bulbs and keep them for next season. You four will help me prepare them.”

The children milled around the table, feigning disinterest but watching Gabriel intently. He picked up one bright red begonia and carefully shook the soil from the bulb into a bucket. With a pair of garden shears he snipped off the bright blooms and tossed them into the bucket as well.

“What are you doing?!” Brian cried.

“In order to save the bulbs, we need to get rid of the leaves and stems and flowers as soon as possible,” Gabriel explained. “They’re going to wither and die anyway.”

“But they’re so pretty!” Wensleydale argued. “Surely we could put them in vases or something?”

“They won’t last long in vases. Besides, I prefer the living plants.” He paused to consider the children's aghast faces. “Have any of you pressed flowers before?”

Pepper wrinkled her nose. “What’s that?”

Gabriel allowed a faint smile to soften his sternness. “All right, save the nicest flower heads from your clippings and we’ll try it out later.”

They whiled away several hours in hard work: trimming the green from the soft brown bulbs, wrapping them in brown paper bags and setting them onto flat pallets which were then carefully laid out in Gabriel’s root cellar.

“What are you keeping these funny little roots for, then?” Brian ventured to ask. He’d somehow managed to smear dirt up to his elbows and across his chin.

“He’s gonna plant them next spring when the grass starts growing!” Pepper informed him. “Right, Mr. Gabriel?”

“That’s correct.” With a flourish, he swept the butcher paper off the table and carefully funneled all the leftover soil into his bucket. He rummaged through one of his Spartan shelves and pulled out what looked to be a thick, black binder. 

The cover was flipped to reveal a dramatic orange flower splayed in peachy glory behind a clear film. The children oohed and rushed to surround it. 

“Tiger lily. From my first year of gardening,” Gabriel explained. Pepper and Wensley took turns turning the pages marveling at the perfectly preserved blooms. Adam butted in to run his fingertip around the edges of the petals. “Careful, they’re fragile,” their host admonished.

“Are we gonna make these?” Brian asked.

By way of reply, Gabriel laid out some wax paper and demonstrated how to splay out the petals for maximum effect. “Once you get them between two layers of paper, you’re going to set a heavy book on top so they lay flat. Then we’ll iron them so the wax seals the flowers.”

“I’m gonna make a card for my mom!” Pepper gushed.

⁂

Crowley and Gabriel watched as the children carefully pressed the begonias. 

“Thank you, for... uh, not getting angry with them.” Crowley gave Gabriel a sidelong glance. He had been fully prepared for the Them to get a thorough talking-to. 

Gabriel shrugged. “I think they’ve learned their lessons.”

“Aren’t you worried about your garden contest?” The disappearance of the begonias would be a huge blow to Gabriel’s point score, even if the judges gave him a pass on account of the children’s thieving.

“Not especially.” He crossed his arms behind his back. “I’ve decided to treat gardening more as an addition to my life, and not the center of it. You know, like you do.”

“That’s... nice.” Crowley said slowly. Perhaps Gabriel was finally getting the psycho-social help he so clearly needed, instead of drinking heavily and writing nasty op-eds in the Tadfield Inquirer, or whatever it was someone like Gabriel normally did for fun. 

“How’s the party planning going—other than stealing flowers from unsuspecting neighbors?” Gabriel’s mouth curved into a small smile—which on Gabriel’s face looked as if someone had twisted it there with a small pair of pliers. But there seemed to be genuine warmth behind it, instead of some desire to corral and punish.

Crowley blinked up at him, feeling stupid. Was Gabriel…teasing him? Joking? Gabriel didn’t make jokes, to Crowley’s knowledge. Barring ones at other people’s expense, of course. Certainly not this kind of playful... banter? “It’s going good. I plan on taking a week off to book caterers and the band and stuff.” 

“It sounds like quite the party! I don’t know if you plan on having any flower arrangements done, but I can give you the number of a florist I know. She does amazing arrangements—I spent a summer with her preparing to open my own florist shop, before I decided to become a real estate agent instead.”

“Oh, that would be nice. Thank you.” Crowley felt rather odd having such a mundane conversation with Gabriel Godwin, but it wasn’t particularly unpleasant either. His neighbor scribbled a name and number on a scrap of paper. As much as Gabriel could be said to scribble anything. The note looked as if it had been printed off a computer. 

“Here. Just tell her I sent you.”

“Mr. Gabriel!! We’re done!!!” the Them chorused, holding up the collections of petals.

Gabriel laughed. “I think that’s our cue.”

⁂


	12. The Birds and the Bees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notice for language and mild discussions of a sexual nature. Enjoy!

⁂

Aziraphale picked at a plate piled high with biscuits. He was currently having a bit of a sulk. 

The bookseller was not a person prone to sad moods and wallowing, but today he was indulging himself. Today was Thursday—book club day—and every member of his book club had canceled. He really shouldn’t be so disappointed (after all, his friends all had their own lives) but lately he had been feeling like they were avoiding him on purpose. After their first date, which Aziraphale had thought to be quite a success, Crowley had claimed not to have any ‘free time’ to go out with him again. Aziraphale had worried that it was because the date actually _hadn’t_ gone well and Crowley was just too polite to tell him. But, despite being suddenly very busy, Crowley’s attitude towards him hadn’t changed even a smidge. During the few short moments they had together, Crowley would grace him with his lovely smiles and lament not having the time to ‘grab a bite’ with Aziraphale.

He let out a forlorn sigh (he could be quite dramatic when he wanted to be) and supposed he should cover up the biscuits and banana bread he’d baked for the occasion. Now that he had the day free, he should probably get to work shipping back orders.

⁂

Pleasant yellow sunshine streamed down from the August afternoon sky. Aziraphale drowsed in his back garden. He had come out here to sit on his cushy bench and enjoy the heat, probably with an intent to read some sappy novel or other, but the book in question had fallen from his limp hand into a disgraceful splayed position on the pavers.

He awoke to the sound of voices coming from Crowley’s side of the wall. This might have surprised him at the beginning of summer, but it seemed like Crowley was often hosting others at his house these days. He couldn’t help but indulge his curiosity by peeking over the garden wall. Aziraphale wasn’t surprised to see Newt or Anathema or Madame Tracy. They came over often enough for Crowley’s ‘relationship counseling’ service, whatever that was exactly. But he was surprised to see Adam’s little gang romping around the garden, too. 

Certainly they couldn’t be having ‘relationship counseling’ if the children were there, unless Crowley was also moonlighting as a nanny. But why hadn’t Aziraphale been invited this time? 

He shuffled back into his house, not wanting to risk his snooping being discovered. But perhaps he also didn’t want to see his friends having fun without him. 

⁂

Tadfield’s sole grocer’s was the sort of old-fashioned independent establishment that one hardly ever found these days; all the ones in larger cities had been taken over by the insufferable creep of bland supermarket chains. 

The Tadfield Grocery was run by Mr. William Ligur. (It was best to call him by his family name; Aziraphale had tried for a jocular ‘Will’ after a few weeks of shopping and been met with a vitriolic glare.) As owner-operators went, Ligur was neither the friendliest nor the most skilled at customer service, but he always kept fair prices and paid a fair wage and thus was quietly respected by most of the community. Aziraphale found himself doing his weekly shop there when he turned a corner, bumping into none other than one Newton Pulsifer.

“Oh hello, Newton!” Aziraphale beamed at him.

Newt turned away from the strawberry jam he had been examining. “Hi, Aziraphale.” There was something odd about the tone of voice he’d used, and the way he couldn’t seem to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. 

“How have you been?” Aziraphale asked, infusing as much honey into his tone as he could manage. He watched Newt carefully. His friend seemed nervous—not that Newt was ever anything _but_ nervous. But this was an unusual display of shyness, even for him.

“Oh, fine.” He gave him a weak smile.

“How’s Anathema?” Aziraphale prodded.

Newt shrugged and glanced away. “She’s fine too.” He laughed, a high, anxious sound. “We’re just fine. Nothing new.”

Something clicked. Crowley had mentioned relationship counseling. Newt was obviously trying to cover up the relationship issues that he and Anathema were having. Aziraphale was a bit hurt that the couple weren’t comfortable confiding in him, but supposed that as Crowley and Newt had been friends for a while it was easier for them to talk about such things. He felt his heart ache for the young man in front of him. Newt and Anathema were such a wonderful couple; anyone who’d spent any time around the two of them could see how well suited they were for one another.

Aziraphale took a step forward and rested a gentle hand on Newt’s arm. “Don’t worry, my dear boy. I do believe things will start looking up. Everything will turn out just fine!” Newt stood there silently, either petrified that his troubles had been found out or paralyzed with grief. _Poor thing,_ Aziraphale thought to himself as he continued on with his shopping. Perhaps he should send over a book on relationship-mending to the couple? That was the ticket: any relationship problems the pair might face certainly weren’t anything a nice, honest conversation and a well-written self-help manual couldn’t solve.

⁂

Newton Pulsifer watched him go, relief written all over his face. 

He had no idea what Aziraphale was going on about, but no matter. Newt was under strict instructions from Crowley not to divulge _anything_ about their secret party-planning endeavors. Yet he wanted nothing more than to impulsively spill the beans to Aziraphale every time they came face to face—he’d always been a horrid liar.

⁂

The next day, as Anathema checked her cottage’s creaky post box, she found an un-addressed little object wrapped in crisp brown paper and tied with a bit of twine. Curious, she pulled off the wrapping to find a book entitled _How to Weather the Storm: A Guide to Repairing and Rekindling Relationships_ and a note that said:

_I hope this helps. Please feel free to call me if you need another book or someone to talk to._

_Yours,_  
_A.Z. Fell_

Anathema stared blankly at the note and book for a moment before she pulled out her cell phone and dialed a familiar number.

“Crowley.” He grunted in affirmation. “Why does Aziraphale think Newt and I need a book on relationship counseling?” 

Crowley spluttered over the line. “It’s got nothing to do with me. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Maybe you shouldn’t argue with your boyfriend so much in public. People start thinking things.”

Her mouth was set in a firm line. “Crowley.”

He cracked like an egg. “Fine! Aziraphale might have been asking nosy questions about what you all were doing meeting at my place, and why he wasn’t invited. And I might have panicked and told him that we were doing relationship counseling. Which is _technically_ not a lie because you all are _counseling_ me on how to improve mine and Aziraphale’s friendship vis-a-vis the planning of a party. I didn’t tell him who the counseling was for; clearly he got to some conclusions on his own.” Crowley was right about this much—sometimes Aziraphale did not so much ‘jump’ to conclusions as go rocketing into the stratosphere wearing a pair of moon-boots.

Anathema’s tone soured. “You can lie to anyone you want, Crowley, I don’t really care. But you don’t have to bring Newt and me into it! I have half a mind to call him right now and set him straight.”

“No! You can’t! Please,” he begged. “I can’t think up any more stories, he’ll start getting suspicious and then all of this is for nothing. Can you please just lean into it for a bit? Muster up some crocodile tears?”

“Fine, I’ll do it. But you owe me. Big time.” 

⁂

With stage one underway, Crowley still had Tracy and Anathema’s extensive list to complete. There wasn’t such a thing as a ‘catering service’ in Tadfield, much less a fancy florist or anyone who knew how to fold napkins into little swan shapes.

Which meant he was going to have to take a week off and go to London. Which meant he was going to need someone to house-sit.

He strutted over to Aziraphale’s cottage, where he could see his friend sitting on the front porch swing, engrossed in some novel or other. “Hi, Aziraphale,” he volleyed, leaning way in over the banister.

“Oh, hello, dear!” He patted the plush beige seat beside him. “We have so much to catch up on. Do come sit!”

“ ‘Fraid I can’t. Actually, I’m about to leave on a trip to the city for a couple of days.”

Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow. “Whatever for?”

“Business stuff, nothing interesting. I’m taking Madame Tracy and Newt with me.” 

“Just Newt?” Aziraphale asked, cocking his head to the side. 

Crowley’s mouth twitched. “Yeah. Kid needs a holiday more than anyone I know. And I mean, it’s not just the two of us. Tracy said she was tired of waking up to Shadwell’s hairy arse every morning and needed a better view for a couple of days and I said ‘popping up to London for a bit, care for a lift? Told me she’d be delighted to go, hadn’t been up to the city in ages, quite missed the honking lorries and the M25 and all the... fog.”

“Why isn’t Anathema coming with?” 

“Uhhhhh.” Crowley suddenly looked very uncomfortable. “She’s staying here. Terribly busy with her studies, lots of papers and things to write. You know how it is. No rest for an academic.”

“Does this have anything to do with your ‘relationship counseling’?'' 

Crowley scratched at his neck and looked away. “Newt and Anathema are… um, taking a break.” 

Aziraphale released a horrified gasp. “Oh no!”

“It’s fine!” Crowley said hurriedly, “they’re going to be fine. Just a bit of time apart to figure stuff out.” He paused a moment, waiting for Aziraphale to reply, but his friend just looked at him blankly. “Anyway, I was wondering if you’d be able to watch Crawly and mind the house for a few days? I would ask Ana, but she’s...” He mimed a person crying.

“Of course. I understand completely.” He hesitated. “Does Crawly eat live mice, then?”

“Nah, you wouldn’t have to feed her. Just make sure she has fresh water and take her out to handle a bit.”

He brightened immeasurably. “It’s no trouble at all!”

“Good, great. Yeah.” Crowley was thrown a bit off kilter by the high-wattage smile. Could probably power the whole town with that grin. “Well, see you when I get back.” He tossed Aziraphale the spare house key. “Bye.”

⁂

Anathema had been organizing her guest room that was currently serving as the party-decorating headquarters. Newt was going away with Madame Tracy and Crowley to ensure that the two of them didn’t go too overboard on catering, flowers, and the band. In the meantime Anathema was to be in charge of decorations. 

Her main job, though, was wrangling the Them, who were assigned as her helpers. Their goal during this week was to get most of the party decorations made. Adam and his gang had come over earlier this morning for a late breakfast and to decide on their schedule. Tomorrow they would focus on the banner, then the streamers, and then centerpieces to go along with the flowers. So far, Adam seemed fine with taking direction from someone else, but she was preparing herself for a full mutiny by the end of the week—she was sure they would be mostly done by then.

Anathema was double-checking whether she had all the supplies for the banner when she heard a knock on the front door. _Hopefully the mutiny hasn’t started already,_ she thought ruefully.

However, there wasn’t a bunch of eleven years olds with handcrafted stick pitchforks waiting at her door but something much, much worse—a concerned neighbor. 

“Hi, Aziraphale. What brings you here?” She leaned against the doorframe, flashing her shiniest smile. Anathema knew the score already. Crowley’s idiot lie of ‘relationship counseling’ was deepening by the hour. He was using that lie to cover up his weeklong absence, claiming that Newt and Anathema were ‘taking a break’. Now she was stuck pretending to be a heartbroken woman to go along with Crowley’s charade. Well, she had always been a theater kid at heart, so she might as well put on a show. 

“I just thought we could have a chat.” He gave her a gentle smile. “I brought chocolate cake. My own special recipe!”

“Well, come inside. We can have a slice of cake and I’ll make some tea.”

The two of them finally settled in at the kitchen table, with cake and a cup of tea each. 

“I hope you don’t mind me being a bit of a busy-body, but I wanted to see how you’ve been doing without... y’know—” Aziraphale paused, glancing at her. 

“Without Newt?” Anathema asked. Even if she and Newt really had been taking a break, she would never be the kind of wilting flower that couldn’t acknowledge it.

“Well, yes.”

“I won’t say it’s not hard, but I think the time apart is good for both of us.” Anathema sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with her napkin, using it to cover her growing smirk. Maybe she could have fun with this. She took a sip of her tea, still trying to brainstorm a reason for her and Newt’s hypothetical ‘break’. Something boring like communication issues? He didn’t do enough chores around the house? He left his dirty socks all over the house?

“I’m sure it will be. It just seems unfair that he gets Tracy and Crowley to support him in his time of need and you don’t get anyone.” He shook his head like he couldn’t believe the audacity. 

“Well, I have you.” Anathema smiled at him. Despite his incorrigible nosiness, she supposed that if she were actually having relationship issues then she would like to have Aziraphale there to talk to. Not to mention he made wonderful cake. 

He blushed and looked down at his plate sheepishly, but she could tell he was pleased. “I do hope you two can work things out. I know that I don’t know what the issue is, but you two do make such a wonderful couple.”

“I hope so too,” She then let out a forlorn sigh. “The thing is that Newt—” Obviously the issue was going to be Newt’s, _she_ wasn’t the one who couldn’t lie worth shit. “Well, it's a very... sensitive issue we’re having. I don’t know if you really want to hear about it.” 

Aziraphale leaned in a little closer across the table and patted her hand. “You can tell me anything, dear.”

Anathema took a deep breath. Newt was going to kill her. “It’s the sex. Newt isn’t as _giving_ as he used to be.”

“That’s quite a significant issue. May I ask a few follow-up questions?”

Anathema blinked. That certainly wasn’t the response she had been expecting. She thought that the minute she brought up her sex life Aziraphale would recoil into a British-y sense of propriety, get embarrased, and then change the subject. But now the nosy bastard was asking for the intimate details! Oh well. Full of surprises as Aziraphale may be, she trusted her ability to improvise. “You may.” 

“Is it a lack of excitement? Is he working too much to have enough energy when he gets home? Have you two experimented with any new toys recently?” Anathema choked on her bite of cake. She scanned up and down his innocent face, trying to see if he was kidding her. Aziraphale looked completely serious. 

“The toys are a good idea,” she said, scrambling to think of a response. “He... uh. He doesn’t go down on me as much.” She might as well see how uncomfortable she could make Aziraphale—if that were even possible.

“That’s a shame. I can see why Madame Tracy was helping with your counseling sessions. She’s an experienced woman. We’ve had lots of interesting conversations about sexuality.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong. Only a few people in town knew that Tracy used to do escort work. “Hopefully this time apart will rekindle our flame. Newt is... a good guy, even if he can be a bit dense sometimes.” 

“I’m sure it will. Have you two thought about trying phone-sex during the break? It can be _quite_ titillating.”

That sounded fun, actually. “I’ll keep it in mind.” 

“You know, I have a few pieces of erotica in my personal collection—most of them are antique, but they make for very interesting reading.” He winked at her.

Anathema giggled despite herself. “I would love to take a look at those.”

“Then it’s settled! I’ll bring them by this week.”

She froze. “Ahh. No. I’ll stop by yours.”

“Why ever not? It’s absolutely no trouble.” He drew himself up in true gentlemanly fashion. “In fact, I insist.”

“No! You can’t come over this week.”

He looked hurt. “Oh. I’ve overstepped.”

“It’s not you. I... have to pet-sit my aunt’s elderly dog this week.” Anathema cringed at the flimsy lie. “She’s anxious and hates strangers, so I’m not supposed to have guests over.”

Aziraphale made a funny face, like he could tell she was bullshitting him but couldn’t figure out why, and he wasn’t going to call her out on it just yet. “I didn’t realize you had an aunt that lived in town.”

“I don’t! She...” Anathema racked her brains for an explanation. “She has to drive all the way down from London. I’ve told her a million times that it’s no trouble for me to go up there, but she always insists that ‘Mimi needs the fresh country air while Mummy is gone.’ ”

“I was under the impression your family all lived in America?”

“Most of them do. But I’ve got family all over the world.” She gave him what she hoped was a winning grin.

He made a motion to rise, pushing his chair back and gathering up his coat. “Well, it seems like a complex situation, certainly. Always know you’re welcome to stop by my cottage—you might need a break from the little terror?”

“Who? Oh, the dog. Yeah, she’s a rascal. I’ll show you out?”

Aziraphale tipped his hat as he walked away, coat thrown over his shoulder in a way that could only be described as ‘dashing’. Anathema sighed. Maybe Crowley was on to something; this secret-keeping business was nowhere near as easy as people made it out to be.

⁂


	13. The Week Away

⁂

On the morning of their first full day in London, Newt and Crowley were peacefully sleeping in. The duo shared a room, and Tracy had the adjoining room all to herself. Crowley immediately regretted getting those adjoining rooms when Madame Tracy barged into their room at the ungodly hour of 7:00 am and yanked the blankets off of both him and Newt. 

Neither Crowley nor Newt could be rightfully considered ‘morning people’ and they were now sitting miserably at the breakfast nook together drinking coffee and listening to Tracy list off their itinerary. 

“We’re focusing on catering today. We have appointments with four different caterers, so we won’t have much time for dilly-dallying! First appointment is at 9 o’clock. The second one is at 11 o’clock. We can get lunch after that, but we mustn’t be leisurely about it because our third appointment is at 2 o’clock. And finally our fourth caterer meets at 4 o’clock. Sound good?” She scrutinized her comrades but what she saw wasn’t particularly hopeful. Crowley’s yawns were so large he was practically unhinging his jaw. Newt’s head drooped as his eyes fought to stay open. Tracy rolled her eyes. She placed the pinkies of each hand in her mouth and let out a loud, ear piercing whistle. Both men jumped at the loud noise. 

“Holy shit!” Crowley yelped holding a hand to his chest as if he was trying to keep his heart from leaping out. 

“Look alive, boys! It’s time to get busy.” Tracy shooed them out of their chairs and set them on the task of getting dressed. 

⁂

“Do you do caviar?” Crowley asked the first caterer. The notebook with which he was supposed to be taking notes had long since been abandoned on the sleek dining table.

Le garçon pursed his lips like he wasn’t sure whether Crowley was having him on. “We can. We usually only order caviar for exclusive events,” Mr. Caterer replied, with a very fancy lisp on the _exclusive._ (Crowley had forgotten the man’s name the moment he had heard it).

Crowley was prepared to respond that he very much wanted caviar when Tracy interrupted him. 

“Excuse us a moment.” She grabbed Crowley by the arm and hauled him away. Newt trailed behind them, watching the proceedings with a restless unease. “Are you out of your mind?!” she hissed.

“What?” Crowley demanded.

She crossed her arms and rolled her eyes to high heaven. “I think ordering caviar would be a tiny bit too much, don’t you, Anthony?”

“Why? I’m certain Aziraphale likes caviar. He has a very refined palate.”

“This is a party for _the whole town._ I know money means little to you, but most of the caviar will simply go to waste,” she explained. 

“Oh,” Crowley muttered. 

“You could always just take Aziraphale out for caviar _after_ the party?” Newt offered. 

“Yeah, you’re right.” Crowley admitted, chewing his bottom lip. 

“Good. Let’s get back to the meeting.” Tracy patted his arm affectionately. “Lots more to discuss.”

⁂

By the end of the day they were all quite worn out. After hours of painstaking dithering, they’d finally settled on caterer number three, who made delicious curries and tiny meat pies. Tracy had spent the better part of her day preventing Crowley from buying outrageous things like ice sculptures or a whole roasted pig. She had, however, conceded to his ordering dozens of tiny champagne flutes, on the justification that they’d ‘all need a good long drink after this’.

“Best get to bed a bit early, loves.” Tracy told them. “We have another busy day tomorrow.” 

Newt groaned and threw himself face first onto the bed while Crowley let out a loud sigh. Who knew party planning would be so difficult?

⁂

“I can’t believe that you can’t hire someone to fold those swan napkins!” Crowley groused. 

“Yes, dear,” Madame Tracy sighed. Crowley had been complaining for the last four hours about the napkins, ever since he found out none of the caterers would do them. She had tried to talk him out of the idea of setting each table with elaborately folded napkin animals, but had eventually given it up. When Crowley got an idea stuck in his head it was almost impossible to shake him from it.

“You could take an origami class? Fold them yourself?” Newt suggested. 

“Yes!” Crowley crowed. 

“Oh, fine. I’ll make room in the schedule.” Tracy pencilled it in.

⁂

They managed to get into a class the next night. (Tracy pulled the strings: she knew a handful of old biddies who were in charge of Arts and Culture in the Greater London Area.) Crowley was unreasonably excited to learn how to fold napkins—he’d always admired the skill of people would could make little three-dimensional shapes out of flat paper or cloth. 

They entered the craft store and were shown to one of the back rooms, which was already set up with rectangular tables and square white napkins.

Crowley walked right up to the front table. He wanted to make sure that he didn’t miss a second of the lesson. Newt looked less enthusiastic about being up front. As a below-average student in school, he’d come to fear the front row as the place where people got called on. He hunkered down directly behind Crowley and tried his hardest to become invisible. Madame Tracy stood beside Crowley with her usual good humor—she was particularly enjoying seeing him so excited about something that didn’t involve playing pranks on his fellow townsfolk.

“Good evening!” The instructor beamed at the class. Crowley grinned right back, practically wiggling with excitement as he stood at his table. He was already playing with the little white napkin, which was heavily starched and therefore very stiff. “My name is Kay, and I will be teaching you all the basics of origami napkin-folding this evening.” 

“Hello, Kay,” the students chorused—some happy, some merely dutiful. Newt glowered at the floor.

“Now, don’t be skittish,” they said, “these crafts don’t bite!” With that, they picked up a multi-segmented folded fabric shark from behind their display table and swam it down the aisles, pretending to snap at the students, then chuckled heartily at their joke. “No, I mean it. I believe you’re all beginners? Raise your hand if you’ve never done origami before, either the paper or the fabric kind.” Crowley, Tracy and the others in their row raised their hands. “Great! Like I said, everything we’ll work on during today’s lesson is perfect for beginners. For those of you who’ll be staying for the whole course, we’ll progress into making more advanced shapes like this guy.” They put the shark to the side of their instructor’s table. 

“We are not staying for the whole course,” Newt grumbled under his breath. Madame Tracy smacked him without turning around.

A projector was trained on their hands, broadcasting all of their movements to a large screen behind their back.  
“Now, go ahead and turn your squares so there’s a point at north, south, east, and west. Kind of like a rhombus.” The students did so. “Excellent, very good! From this base we’re going to design three shapes: a rose, a frog, and a crane. We’ll start with the crane, one of the most classic origami shapes. First, we’re going to crease our cloths at the center line...”

⁂

By the end of the class, Crowley was proud to present the instructor with a handsome, if lopsided, little crane. Madame Tracy’s rose was a bit messy, but was certainly still recognizable as a rose. Newt, on the other hand, reluctantly showed a crumpled wad of fabric that was supposed to be a frog. 

“Very good, you two!” Kay enthused, observing Tracy and Crowley’s creations. “Oh, what a neat little guy,” they said of Newt’s frog, deftly untucking the last few folds and reshaping them. It was looking better already. “Keep practicing, and I know you’ll really get the hang of it!” Kay smiled warmly into Newt’s surly expression.

“It’s... not really my thing,” he said through gritted teeth. 

“Oh ignore him, he’s just whinging.” Madame Tracy patted Newt on the shoulder forcefully. “Thank you for the lesson.”

“You’ve been a fantastic help, Kay,” Crowley informed them, crushing their hand between his as if he were a rescued shipwreck survivor being pulled from the depths. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you!”

“Aw, that’s... very sweet,” they said, looking flattered but alarmed by Crowley’s intensity.

“This is a crucial ingredient in the party I’m planning,” he insisted. “I want you to be there.” He slid an ivory-colored envelope across their demonstration table.

Kay took the invitation as though it might bite them. “Thank... thank you?”

“I hope I’ll see you soon!” Crowley called, as Tracy took each of the men by the arm and frog-marched them out to the street.

⁂

Madame Tracy had held absolutely firm that not only was ‘dancing’ an essential component of a party of this caliber, but it was the duty of a gentleman and host to know how to dance and to lead the first set. 

So Newt and Crowley were going to learn to waltz.

Newt was turning a lovely shade of tomato as he put his hand on Crowley’s shoulder blade. His friend fixed him with an unwavering stare. Newt broke form and stepped backward, shaking his head. “I can’t do this!”

“It’s a simple box step, Pulsifer, not a sodding acrobatics lesson.”

“Stop looking at me like that! I can’t, I’ll make a fool of myself, I’ll trip over my own damn feet and fall in front of everyone—”

Crowley grabbed him by both shoulders. “Are you really going to disappoint Anathema like that? Tell her you can’t take her out on the dance floor with everyone else because you’re too _awkward?_ Tell her that all you learned from your exciting week-long trip to London was how to wad up a napkin into a ball?”

“It’s not _my_ fault that I lack manual dexterity,” Newt argued.

“Maybe I should have brought Anathema up here instead. _She_ would be having a good time instead of finding a way to complain about everything!”

Newt crossed his arms. “Maybe you should have brought her.”

“Maybe I should have.”

“Fine!”

“Fine.” 

“Boys! Concentrate,” Tracy clapped from the sidelines. “The class is bought and paid for, so I’m going to see you both out there giving it your all. On three! One, two, three—one, two, three...” They picked out each step to a slow waltz tune, glaring savagely at one another. “Excellent! That’s the intensity I love to see. There’s the passion!”

Cries of ‘pay attention, you’re mixing up the steps’ and ‘OUCH, you stepped on my foot!’ echoed down the hall.

⁂

Day four of the London trip found Crowley staring intently at two different fabric napkins, trying his hardest to decide which one would look best at the party. 

Only the finest and sturdiest cotton cloths with the highest thread counts would be good enough for his swan napkins (which he’d been practicing every night with the help of YouTube tutorials), or at least that’s what he kept proclaiming to anyone who would listen. Up until Tracy threw up her hands and walked out of the building without another word.

Newt’s cell dinged with a text alert. _Gone to pick up Crowley’s new suit from the tailor’s. Please save him from himself._

Newt, who was indeed growing tired of staring at rows of different colored fabric, finally spoke up in an attempt to break Crowley out of his trance. “They’re both white! Just pick one!” 

Crowley whipped his head around to glare at Newt. “This one,” he said holding the napkin in his right hand aloft, “is ivory. This one,” he held up the napkin in his left hand, “is eggshell. They are vastly different colors.”

Newt groaned loudly. He knew he should have gone with Tracy. Crowley and his stupid napkins be damned.

⁂

The trio of intrepid planners were lounging around the coffee table in their hotel room, thoroughly exhausted by their efforts. Newt was flicking through the television channels, grumbling to himself every time he landed on something that turned out to be a dud. “Correspondent Carmine Zuigiber reports that tensions in the Middle East—” _Click!_ “With us now is the esteemed Dr. Raven Sable, the celebrity dietician taking the world by storm with his new line of weight-loss shakes—” _Click!_

“Quit it,” Tracy admonished as she picked a stitch out of her embroidery project. “Take the evening off, you’re in no fit state to socialize.”

Newt’s phone buzzed and he slapped at his pockets trying to find it. “Hi, Ana.” There was a tinny response. “Nothing exciting, we’re just sitting around.” He stood up and started pacing tiny circles around the kitchenette. Ice clinked and the tap ran as he filled himself a glass of water. “Crowley’s being an absolute beast. You’d think we were planning a wedding.”

“I resent that!” Crowley yelled over the back of the couch, brandishing the remote at him. 

He cocked his head to the side, blocking out Crowley with a hand pressed to his free ear. “Oh, he did? What did you tell him?” More chatter. Newt gasped in indignation. “ _Anathema,_ you didn’t! He’s going to think I’m...” He took a sip of his ice water and squinted at something she’d said. Then he choked, spraying a fine wet mist through the kitchenette, water dripping down his chin as his face graduated from pale to a vivid pink. Coughing with a vengeance, he squawked something at her and slammed the ‘end call button’ before chucking the phone into a pillow and fleeing to his and Crowley’s bedroom. 

“What on Earth was that about?” Tracy wondered aloud as she did her absolute best to embroider a pumpkin.

_“My girlfriend just tried to sex me up over the phone!”_ he shouted back, muffled but still loud enough to be heard through the walls.

“Call her back!” Tracy suggested. “It’d do you a heap of good.”

⁂


	14. The Week at Home

⁂

Aziraphale fumbled with the key, finally getting the door to unlock, and stepped inside the house. It felt like sort of a sacred space, though he didn’t know why it should. Crowley had asked him to be here. But it was always odd to be in someone else’s house while the owner wasn’t there. Crowley had spent so much time alone here that the whole place felt of him. Aziraphale shivered slightly, plagued by the sense that innumerable eyes were watching him from very surface.

It was dark in here, too. Dim. He pulled back the heavy brocade curtains and cracked the window open, sighing as fresh air caressed his face. Much better.

In the daylight the place was as spartan as he remembered. The very few visible objects were meticulously arranged. There was little in the way of décor, aside from a rather defamatory portrait depicting one culture’s idea of Jesus. And a small plaque that read _Abandon all hope, ye who enter here, _calligraphed in the curlicued style of a young mother’s _Live, Laugh, Love_ wall hanging. An enormous snake terrarium took up the entire south wall. He could just catch a peek of the orange and white wonder within.__

__He stepped out the back door into Crowley’s lush garden. The scars of the brush fire had long since healed over. Orange, red, and yellow flowers bloomed in abundance. Their glossy petals were starting to wilt, however. Wouldn’t they need to be watered? Crowley hadn’t left him any instructions, but Aziraphale felt like it had to be expected that he’d care for them. He rooted around in the shed until he found a hose, which he set at a careful medium of pressure. The spray of droplets refracted a rainbow of light. The flowers looked happier now, at least._ _

__As he showered the garden with a careful hand his eyes cast about. Admittedly, he didn’t know much about garden care, but he thought those rosebushes could use a prune. And the grass would need to be mowed sooner rather than later._ _

__The seeds of an idea started to take root in his mind. What better way to thank Crowley for being such a dear friend, than by sprucing up the garden to look its best? He would only need to make a few calls..._ _

____

⁂

“Tadfield Nursery.” A bored-sounding voice picked up the phone. There was a faintly buzzy sound to it that might have just been the poor connection.

“Yes. Hello. Is this, erm... ‘Bee?’”

“It izzz.”

“Right! Well, I was hoping you could help me with a garden problem I’m having.”

“Infestations should be directed to the Oxfordshire Area Pest Control Board.” There was a rustle as if they planned to hang up the phone.

“No! No, misunderstanding. No infestations, nothing like that.” He hoped. He wouldn’t know the signs of one, if there were. But he doubted Crowley would tolerate any kind of insect problem in his precious garden. “I was hoping you could be my guide to the world of gardening!”

Bee paused. “Who izzz this?”

“Aziraphale. The, er, new-ish neighbor. I’m calling on behalf of Crowley.” He twirled his phone cord around his index finger, anxiously hoping for a positive response to either of those names. “It, uh, I was hoping to surprise him. He’s very into this ‘garden contest’ thing. But he’s going out of town for a bit and I—he was worried that he wouldn’t have enough time to prepare everything. So I—” he trailed off, voice getting small as he realized how much babbling he was doing. “—hoped you could give me some pointers. Or something.”

“Crowley. Huh.” The line went quiet for so long Aziraphale was almost certain they had hung up on him. “...I can’t get involved with this, officially. Ga—the other contestants wouldn’t like it. I give the final word on who wins or loses the prize.”

“Oh. I see.” Barring further communication, Aziraphale wondered if he should end the call. 

“...But I do know someone else who can help. When do you want this done?”

He was delighted at the change in his fortunes. “As soon as possible! Please! I’m free just about any time.”

“I’ll send him over this afternoon.” _Click. ___

____

⁂

Hastur stomped through Crowley’s back gate wearing a pair of tall, sturdy black Wellingtons and a nasty expression. His chin jutted up in the air as he scoured Crowley’s garden with his eyes and seemed to find the whole thing lacking.

“What’s the big emergency?” he growled.

“Hello!” Aziraphale bounded out from behind the garden shed with a pair of overlarge gloves disguising his hands, and a little trowel he clutched as though it were the wheel of a ship caught in a hurricane. “Jolly good to see you!”

Hastur rolled his eyes. “You must be,” he squinted halfheartedly at his paperwork, “Ennebell.”

“You can call me Fell!” he said helpfully. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch yours?”

“Hhhhastur,” he sighed, like Aziraphale was too far beneath him to even be worth introducing himself to. He paced around the grass like a dog angry to be confined on a short length of leash. “You know, you need a rain garden put in the middle, here. Terrible drainage. Just look at the muck. A pond, for sure. Bit of gravel around the edge.”

Aziraphale held a smile gamely. “You know, I’ll have to ask Crowley about that. It’d be quite a significant renovation job.”

“You do that.” He rustled his clipboard papers. “Explain to me what Bee had me dragged all the way out here for.”

“Well, you see,” Aziraphale began, “as Crowley’s in the garden contest and he’s away for a bit, I wanted to keep up with the garden maintenance. But I’m not sure where to start!”

“WEEDS,” Hastur bellowed.

“What about them?”

“Hold this,” he said. Aziraphale obediently put out his hands only to have a large, dry, rather pouty toad deposited in them. “That’s Laura,” Hastur informed him. He rummaged in his box of tools, retrieving and holding up some sort of torturous-looking pronged implement. “Blood, sweat, and tears are the true foods of a glorious garden. _Weed it,”_ he howled, thrusting his strange tool at Aziraphale and pointing him at the rose bed. “GET TO WORK!”

“Right.” Aziraphale squared his shoulders. “Which ones are the weeds, exactly?”

⁂

Aziraphale mopped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. If flowers did indeed feed on various bodily excretions, these ones were sure to bloom beautifully. Or so he hoped.

“I think the weeds have been thoroughly tamed,” he announced. Hastur was reclining in the shade of Crowley’s oak tree, drinking a lemonade with a little paper umbrella in it and scribbling furiously on some sort of blueprint. “What’s next?”

“Cut off their heads.”

Aziraphale furrowed his brow. “I beg your pardon?”

“Cut. Their heads. Off,” Hastur sighed. “The flowers, the dead ones. Snip off any that are turning brown.”

He smiled, relieved. “Oh! Right away.”

⁂

“Ehhh, Hastur.” Ligur had squeezed through Crowley’s back gate and was now engaged in a complicated bro-hug-secret-handshake-ritual with his best friend. “Been a minute, mate. You ready to head out?”

Hastur slurped at his straw. “Naw. I’ve got this little man under my thumb and I’m not about to leave while the getting’s good.” He framed Aziraphale like a picture between his fingers. “He’s paying me to ‘advise’ him. Never had a better gig in my life.”

“Who’s he, then?”

“Name’s ‘Earful’ or something like that. This ain’t even his garden. Friend of his. Tall bloke with the hair.”

Ligur nodded in recognition. “Crowley, the insufferable bastard. Michael was telling me he’s throwing some sort of big party. Came to her looking for handouts. She sent him out on his arse, of course.”

“What d’you suppose he’s throwing a party for?”

“No idea,” Ligur shrugged. They watched Aziraphale toil. 

“Completely whipped, that one.”

“I’m inclined to agree.”

⁂

Dagon strolled through the gate about forty-five minutes later. “Whazzap, meatheads.”

Ligur and Hastur shushed them and pointed at Aziraphale, who was now singing to himself rather loudly (complete with conductorial flourishes at the good parts).

“He’s like a little wind-up toy you never have to wind,” Ligur said, almost awed.

“Yeah, great, whatever, come on!” Dagon insisted. “It’s trivia night at the pub, and if we don’t win this week I’ll eat my shirt.”

“Keep your shirt on,” Ligur and Hastur said in unison, as if by rote.

Dagon pinched the bridge of their nose. “Look, Bee’s already not happy that we’re late. They’ve been—” they mimed a person drinking and scowled. 

“Still?” Ligur looked incredulous. “It’s been weeks since Bee broke up with Gabriel. Tell Bee to quit moping and get themself out to greener pastures.”

Dagon shook their head. “You wanna tell them that? Be my guest.”

“Anyway, Bee’s the one that turned me on to this job,” Hastur pointed out. “I’ve half a mind to invite ‘em out here to join me and take a cut of the pay. Easiest job I’ve ever done.”

A pair of boots crunched through the gravel. Crowley’s gate was unceremoniously thrown open.

“Speak of the devil!” the other three cried.

“What are you lot waiting for?” Bee snarled. “Get in the car!”

“We’re getting our free entertainment,” Ligur explained. 

“Look at him go,” Hastur said. “Pudgy, delicate little fellow, and he’s been working his fingers to the bone all day for that friend of his. It’s like a fairy story.”

Bee rolled their neck and grimaced. “I don’t care! Pub. Now. We’re late.”

“Big nerdbrain like that,” Dagon pointed out, “I bet he knows loads of useless facts. Could help the Dream Team push its way to a trivia victory...”

Bee’s eyes turned away from the situation to view the back of their skull. “If you’re so in love with him, invite him out then. But do it quick.”

“Oy! Freshmeat!” Hastur yelled, jerking his head toward the assembled quartet. “Get over here.”

“Huh?” Aziraphale’s head popped up. He removed the headphones attached to his ancient Walkman. “Oh, Hastur, you brought friends!” Embarrassed not to have noticed them, he hurried over, brushing off his hands as he went. Dirt was smudged across both of his cheeks. “Hello, all. You probably don’t remember me, I’m—”

“We know who you are. Get in the car,” Bee snapped. 

“Oh, all right—where are we going?” he cried as they grabbed him by the back of the shirt and stuffed him in the back of the car before driving away.

⁂

Aziraphale awoke on Crowley’s sofa, bleary eyed and stiff. Last night had been fun. Perhaps too much fun, if the fact that he’d fallen asleep in his clothes with no a pillow or blanket in sight had anything to say about it.

Judging by the rasp in his throat, there may also have been some drunken shouting and/or singing involved. Oh, perfect. All he’d need is for someone to have videotaped that and put it on the YouTube. Everyone would be spreading it around and making fun of him. He groaned as he rolled out his shoulders. Between the yard work and the cramming himself onto tiny furniture, they seemed to have developed a permanent hunch.

Upon yawning, a dark smudge on his palm caught his eye. He narrowed his eyes at it. It was definitely a phone number. It didn’t look like his handwriting. A hot flush journeyed from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. He couldn’t imagine whose it was, or how it had gotten there.

Aziraphale got up from the sofa and shuffled out the door towards home. It must be frighteningly early—the birds were still making their rousing calls, and there was a nip in the air.

He was glad Crowley’s absence was obvious, and he hoped it was still early enough that nobody would be awake yet: the last thing he needed was for one of the town busybodies to share stories involving him exiting Crowley’s house with his hair mussed and his shirt un-tucked. Not that there was anything wrong with sleeping over at the house of one’s dating-partner, of course. But when Aziraphale planned an overnight stay with someone he always carried a travel kit with him, so that he could be properly presentable before breakfast. He did have standards, after all.

Post a shower, a fresh outfit (he’d foregone the usual belt and bow tie for suspenders and an open collar that were easier to work in), and a breakfast of a bran muffin, he logged in to his e-mail to see if he’d received any new orders.

Instead, he found an e-mail from an unrecognized sender.

_Hey, you old dinosaur._

_Said you don’t text or even have a phone proper, so this was the best way to get in touch._

_Trivia’s every Thursday night. Don’t be late or Bee will have your head on a pike._

_xX_TheDagster_Xx_

It seemed he had a new obligation to look forward to.

Aziraphale whistled to himself as he signed and stamped orders, wrapping the books in thick brown paper and placing them in bubble mailers. Some of them were going overseas, and these he wrapped in extra thick cushions of packaging. The postal service could be dreadfully uncouth, and customs officials weren’t much better.

Once his shipments were prepared, there seemed to be an endless list of household tasks to tackle. The birds would need to be fed and to have their cages scraped. The shelves would need to be dusted, and the floors waxed. Come to think of it, Crowley’s floors might need to be waxed as well. He might as well get to them while he had his supplies out.

After spending most of the morning on his knees, he took a nice lunch break in the garden. As he watched the sunflowers willow in the wind, he grabbed a pair of shears and cut one down, trimming it so it was vase-sized. Then he grabbed his bucket of floor polish and headed to Crowley’s cottage. 

There he settled the flower in an old crystal vase. Dear me, but it was dusty. He swiped down the edges with a cloth he found in the cupboard, alongside a nice set of napkins and a tablecloth. He figured he might as well air them out, too, and set the table like guests were arriving.

The hardwood flooring in question was fine oak with a golden finish. Undoubtedly lovely, just needed a bit of polish. Aziraphale set to work carefully arranging all the furniture in the kitchen and rolling up the area rug. He coaxed Crawly into her portable terrarium and left her in a nice outdoor spot, half in shade. Wouldn’t want her to get ill from the fumes.

He went about it all in a fairly automatic way—radio tuned to classical music and old show tunes, waxing and buffing and leaving the surface to cure. Then he cast about for more to do, hands working of their own volition as he beat rugs and vacuumed curtains and thought about other things.

Things like ‘Why are my friends avoiding me?’ and ‘Does Crowley feel about me the same way I feel about him?’ 

He pushed those to the back of his mind, instead making mental lists: titles of books he needed to source for customers, groceries he needed to buy for the week, objects to mend, taxes to file...

 _You should leave,_ said a little voice in his head.

“Leave what?” he snapped.

_Leave Tadfield._

Leave Tadfield? The idea was ridiculous. “Stop it. You’re being silly. I can’t just pack up and _leave._ I have a home here. I have friends.”

_Do you?_

He shook his head, annoyed by this train of thought. “Of course I do. Lots of them.”

_Where are they?_

Aziraphale balled up the rag in his hands. A scowl twisted his expression. “It doesn’t matter _where_ they are, they’re free people.”

_Then why haven’t they come to visit? Why are they keeping secrets from you?_

“I’m sure they have perfectly good reasons for what they’re doing. The world doesn’t revolve around me.”

_They don’t want you._

Aziraphale sat with his shoulders slumped. Memories he’d long since stowed rose to the surface. His introduction to his great-aunt many years before, when he’d been on a tear through the house, excited to see his new lodgings, and Annabelle had remarked to his mother, dryly, “Is he always this... _exuberant?”_ He recalled the boys at school he’d tried so hard to befriend, and how they played along for weeks, only to turn and mock his speech and his mannerisms behind his back. After one brutal session he’d called his parents in tears, only for them to sternly suggest that he ‘try harder to fit in.’ So he’d turned to study; scripts and rules and strategies.

He recalled the dozens of first dates he’d ruined by saying the right thing at the wrong time, or the wrong thing the moment he opened his mouth. Adrenaline-filled nights where he’d been excited to show off his recently-acquired erotic knowledge, only to bumble through yet another awkward encounter. Clubs and self-help groups he’d attended only to be accidentally shut out when someone neglected to mention they were changing the date and times of meetings. And always, always wishing that there existed, somewhere, a rule book for people.

It would be easier to go back to the city, where nobody took any notice of you, where you would have to work very hard to be the strangest person anyone had seen that week. Where nobody cared what you did in your own quarters so long as you kept the noise to a reasonable decibel. Where nobody pretended to like you, because nobody had energy to invest in simple pleasantries, much less long-term emotional manipulation. Where you could be surrounded by people and somehow totally alone.

He stood. The fumes must be getting to his head. 

He missed Crowley.

⁂

Right. Handle the snake.

He approached Crawly, who was basking in her terrarium: a large, scaly pile of disinterest.

“Hello, Crawly.” He slid the door of her terrarium open. “I suppose you can come out now, if you’re interested.” Her tongue flicked in and out, probably taking in his scent. She slithered to the opening at a leisurely pace, leading with her head. He lifted her with both hands safely around her middle, the way Crowley had shown him. 

“Our mutual friend isn’t available at the moment, which you’ve probably noticed. I’m sure I make a poor substitute.”

She didn’t seem to mind the change of pace. Her lithe body gripped his arm like a vise as she climbed him. Instinct drove her to seek higher ground, like her ancestors who stalked from trees with the patience of ancients. 

“Crowley should be home soon. Things ought to go back to normal. And you and I will probably have less to see of one another.” She seemed very interested in his head and neck, drawn there by the heat of his skin. “I’m sure you don’t get attached to other creatures, my dear.” No need for family or friends, merely food and warmth and a little home to hide in. Must be a nice way to live. “I can’t say I recommend it. Being a social animal is very difficult.” Bored with her exploration, she attempted to fling herself from her perch. He caught and guided her back down to his waist, at which point she once again began the slow trek up to his shoulder.

“I care about him very much, you know.” Smooth scales glided through his fingers. “I think I might even be in love with him. Do you suppose he feels the same, Crawly?” The snake’s indifference was soothing. Nothing bothered this cold-blooded reptile other than the thought of getting a bite of mouse now and then. “I don’t think I could bear it, if he didn’t.”

⁂

Crowley walked in through the front door. Instead of weathered wood flooring, his feet landed on a plush rug. Odd. He hadn’t seen this doormat since he’d decided it was too dirty and needed to be properly beaten. But having run out of time or energy to care, he’d shoved it into a corner and forgotten about it.

The other thing he noticed was how fresh the air felt. Like there was a breeze running through the cottage. Unfamiliar, but not bad. Just different.

He rounded the corner to see Aziraphale cross-legged on the center of the carpet. He was gazing into Crawly’s eyes, enraptured, as he spoke to the snake in a low running monologue.

“He’s kind, and clever, and so _handsome_... and his _eyes!_ Oh, you could never understand, could you, my dear?”

Crowley had a few reactions to this. First: _Oh._ Then, He has a _boyfriend?_ The thought made his stomach squirm, even as he condemned himself for being selfish. Who could it be? Ligur was handsome enough, though abysmally cold. Though perhaps he was warmer once you got to know him. Surely not Hastur, the miserable bastard. Or the mayor, who was rumored to be single, but to have a lot of _weird proclivities._ Then he shook his head. It didn’t matter. Aziraphale’s love life was his own business, and as his friend, Crowley would support him in it.

But then he realized that Aziraphale hadn’t heard him come in, and he was still cooing at the snake, and Crowley was still watching him, and now he was feeling uneasy. He took a few steps back and banged the door into the wall like he’d just thrown it open with enthusiasm. “Hey, Aziraphale! You in here? I’m back from town.”

“Oh, hello, Crowley!” He didn’t rise from his seat on the floor. Crawly was half coiled in his lap, her inquisitive head guiding her exploration of Aziraphale’s neck and shoulders. “I’ve just been having a lovely chat with Miss Crawly. I’m beginning to see why she’s a wonderful conversational partner.” His cheeks were faintly pink, but then again Aziraphale always had a naturally ruddy complexion. The late-afternoon sun coming in from the window backlit his face in a golden glow. Crowley noted the way Aziraphale always addressed his pet with the respectful honorific, like she was some young lady of great status. He felt some kind of way about that, but he snatched the feeling and stuffed it in a pocket.

“I trust you were able to get done everything that you needed in the city?” Aziraphale continued, as he returned Crawly to her enclosure. His expression was one of wry curiosity. Crowley hoped that he hadn’t caught on to his scheme yet. It wouldn’t be much of a surprise party if it wasn’t a _surprise._ And Aziraphale had always been too clever for his own good.

“Ah, yeah. Very busy. Lots of stuff.”

From the table, a glint of light caught his eye. There it was—a simple glass vase with facets. In it was the head of a bright yellow sunflower. One of Crowley’s rescued cast-offs, almost certainly, looking bright and unblemished and healthy. Cut at an angle and resting in fresh clear water.

Aziraphale must have noticed the direction he was looking. His breath caught in a little sound, like ‘hh!’ “I hope you don’t mind, I erm, tidied up a bit? Thought it would be nice to come home to...” He wrung his hands, like he was worried Crowley would resent him. “Not that your house wasn’t tidy before!”

“No, no, it’s...” He scanned his traditionally closed-off and sullen cottage. With the floors waxed and the curtains free of dust and every surface polished and gleaming, with the orangey light of the setting sun filtering through the open windows, it looked golden-touched. “It looks... good.”

He didn’t quite look reassured yet. “I um, remembered to water the flowers. And did a bit of work in the garden myself. I hope you don’t mind...”

Crowley walked to the back garden as if in a trance.

“I had help, you know, didn’t just go mucking about with no experience... called in to ask for a few favors.” His voice had become high and wobbly, as if walking a tight-line between breaking or falling into a lower register.

He removed his sunglasses and stared in open-mouthed marvel at what had become of his plants. 

The lawn was perfectly trimmed and edged. Mower lines cut at a perfect diagonal, the clippings long since raked and hauled away. Each bush and shrub had turned out its best colors and no sprig was left to chance. The newly turned weed-free beds were covered with a thin layer of fresh mulch. There wasn’t so much as a wilted flower petal to be seen anywhere.

Crowley threw those glasses to the wayside and pulled Aziraphale in for a fierce hug.

He seemed shocked, at first, but eventually hugged back just as tightly.

“It’s perfect!” Crowley gushed. “How did you ever manage it?!”

“Well, I had help—” he blushed and stared at the pavers. “Bee and Hastur and the others.”

“You made friends with _Hastur?”_ Crowley threw back his head and laughed. “Aziraphale, you’re amazing. I want you to know that.”

He seemed a little lightened by Crowley’s good mood. “Well, ‘friends’ might be too hasty. ‘Not-enemies’ seems a good start. Anyway, the garden was already gorgeous. You have to be a shoe-in for first place at the contest tomorrow!”

“The garden contest?” Right. _Shit._ He hadn’t even bothered to fill out an entry form this year. “Yeees. Of course. That. First place! For sure! Hey, why don’t you come with me? To the awards... thingy?”

Aziraphale looked incredibly flattered. “Well! If you’re sure won’t mind?”

“I _want_ you to be there.”

“Then consider it a date, dear fellow!” He seemed nervous all of a sudden, casting about at the reddening sky. “I had better get going. I’m sure you’re busy...”

“Well, I won’t pressure you if you’ve got soup on, or something. But I haven’t seen you all week, and I do have some very delicious Phad Thai in-a-box. Figured we can eat an inspired dinner and there’s got to be terrible movies kicking around some neglected television channel.”

Aziraphale took a long time to parse this offer, as if weighing it on a cosmic scale. Finally, he sighed a little and smiled. “That sounds fun.”

⁂


	15. The Die Is Cast

⁂

_7:45._

Crowley opened a groggy eye and read the time on his alarm clock with some alarm. “Shit,” he mumbled. He tried to spring out of bed, but tripped on his bedsheet and ended up in a disgraceful floor-heap instead. “Double shit.”

Upon regaining his feet, he scrambled to the doorway, grabbed a sheaf of papers, quickly put up his hair, and laced up his trainers. Then he took off at a wind sprint toward City Hall.

This caught the attention of R. P. Tyler, who saw it as his sworn duty to weed all unusual behaviors out of the populace. And nobody had ever known Crowley to run anywhere, for any reason, _ever._

“Where are you going, young man?” Tyler shouted, rustling his newspapers in a way that was probably supposed to be intimidating. Crowley didn’t have time for this, so he kept going.

He kicked through the door of Tadfield’s official city hall building and scrambled up to the front desk. “Mayor. Where?” he said between frantic breaths. “Contest.” He gestured emphatically at his papers.

The secretary sighed and gestured with his thumb up the stairs to the right.

Crowley leapt the stairs in bounds, then scanned the hall. There was indeed light coming from Mayor Sandalphon’s office down the way. He skidded over to it, then threw the door open without bothering to knock.

“Sandalphon. Hi,” he wheezed.

The mayor gave him a complex, sneering smile. It was the sort of look one might give a partially decayed organism stuck to the bottom of one’s shoe, if said organism was also something one wished to dissect with a ballpoint pen and a sharp pair of tweezers. He looked Crowley up and down, taking in his holey joggers and messy bun and faded grey t-shirt with _Sarcasm Is My Native Language_ emblazoned across its front. “Mr. Crowley. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I wish to formally register for the garden contest,” he announced, sliding the completed form across the table. 

“A. Z. Fell and A. J. Crowley, registered to seven twenty-two Hogsback Lane,” he said with agonizing slowness, enunciating each syllable as if it were its own sentence. “Very sorry, Mr. Crowley, but it’s too late to register. You know that as well as I.”

“No, it’s not, and I can prove it.” He flipped open his rule book to a neon colored sticky tab and read a passage highlighted in yellow. “ ‘Guidelines for Entry: letter A, subsection 5b. _Contestants must submit all registration prior to judging.’_ ”

“Judging starts today, Mr. Crowley,” Sandalphon sighed. “In—” he checked his watch, “—forty-seven minutes. Precisely.”

“Ah,” Crowley rebutted, “but judging hasn’t _actually_ started yet.”

Sandalphon was getting testy. “The intent of the rules is clear. All registration must be submitted prior to the day of judging.”

“That’s not what the rules _say.”_ Crowley handed the mayor the rule book for his satisfaction. “I didn’t write them. All I’m asking is for you to follow the rules of the garden contest as written.”

The mayor leaned back in his plush leather office chair and crossed his arms. “No.”

Crowley took the seat opposite from the mayor and stared him down, leaning his chin on one hand while twirling a pen in the other. “Elijah. My friend. I pray you’ll reconsider your choices. We wouldn’t want, say, the _Godwin siblings_ getting involved with this.”

Sandalphon looked unimpressed. “Are you threatening an elected official, Mr. Crowley?”

“Not threatening. Merely pointing out that I could easily get a jury of my peers to protest the city’s unfair disqualification of a lawful entrant in the Tadfield Gardening Showcase. A disqualification, in fact, that could be said to significantly impact the overall quality of the contestant pool. A disqualification that _could_ be construed as showing political favoritism to someone else, in spite of the supposed neutrality of your position as an elected official.” He took a sharp breath. “Failure to uphold the laws and codes of our fair city is certainly a breach of the public’s trust. And it may amount to misconduct in public office. The Godwins have some influence in this town, as I’m sure you’re aware. With their team of posh lawyers, I’d win my case easily. And then they’d proceed to drag your reputation through the mud.”

“An amusing story,” Sandalphon said. “Michael Godwin doesn’t even like you.”

“Oh, she’s come around,” Crowley said confidently. “Everyone has. I think you’ll find I have more friends in this town than you’d have ever believed.” He clicked his pen a couple of times for emphasis while he glanced at the clock. _Thirty-four minutes._ “You need proof? Michael gave me the rental of the community center next week. She signed the paperwork herself. Look it up if you don’t believe me.”

A skeptical Sandalphon typed in a code on his computer. As he scanned the page, his brow furrowed and his face paled.

“You see,” Crowley said, “I have friends who could make your political life infinitely more complicated.” He threw his pen on the table with a resounding _snap!_ “So ask yourself, Elijah, is it worth all this headache and heartache over a measly handful of flowers? Do you need to risk your position as mayor just to prove something to me? But please make your choice quickly. The clock is _ticking.”_

Sandalphon steepled his fingers, staring at Crowley like he was trying to bore a hole through him. Finally, he pulled the registration form toward himself, stamped it, and wordlessly handed it back to Crowley.

Crowley allowed himself a self-satisfied smirk. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He left City Hall and jogged back to his cottage, grinning as he clutched the paperwork to his chest. He was certain that with Aziraphale’s help he was still in the running for first place. The garden was in nothing short of immaculate condition after his weeklong departure. He couldn’t help but imagine that look on Aziraphale’s face when they were both called to the stage to accept the grand prize.

⁂

Contestants were not allowed to be in their home when judging occured. Typically Crowley would spend judging over with Anathema and Newt, but this year he was in Aziraphale’s kitchen, trying to eat his own weight in banana bread. 

“God, Aziraphale, this is so _good,”_ he moaned. Usually such a suggestive sound coming from Crowley’s lips would have made Aziraphale blush horribly. Instead, his friend was far too preoccupied with trying to catch a peek at the judging happening next door. 

“How can you eat at a time like this?” Aziraphale said. “I’m so nervous I can’t even think about food.”

Crowley shrugged. “I’ve been doing this for five years.” He took another slice of banana bread. “Do you have more of this? There’s only two pieces left.”

“No Crowley, I don’t have any more. On account of you _eating all of it.”_

He stopped his chewing. “Sorry.”

Aziraphale rubbed his face in frustration. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s hand and squeezed it affectionately. “What’s eating you?”

“I’m just so anxious. What if I’ve ruined something? I didn’t even bother to read the rule books! People around here devote their _lives_ to this art, and all I’ve done is blunder around and start lopping off leaves! Oh, I’ve probably cost you the win...”

“Look at me.” Crowley waited until Aziraphale turned back toward him, still halfheartedly biting his nails. “One: it’s a silly contest, it’s just for fun. Two: you did a fantastic job taking care of the garden while I was away. Three: we’re going out for ice cream after and that’s genuinely all I care about today.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows were still drawn together in worry, but he tried for a flimsy smile. His pigeons began cooing and fluttering in their loft. He observed them through the window then glanced at his watch. “The birds will be wanting their bath.”

“Let’s go do that. But!” Crowley held up a finger in mock sternness. “No peeking at the judges.”

“I promise.”

⁂

They entered the flight pen, a sturdy wire-fenced enclosure attached to the pigeon loft. 

Aziraphale opened the hatch and whistled a two-tone call. The birds fluttered into the aviary. 

“That’s Virginia, Jane, Emily, and Charlotte.” He pointed out gray with iridescent feathers, pied brown and white, white with black speckles, and a shimmering tawny brown in turn. “They’re all hens at the moment.”

Two of them immediately landed in the bath and began ruffling their feathers. The other two landed on Crowley, who looked frozen in terror.

“Oh, they like you!” Aziraphale beamed.

Crowley’s back was now pressed to the wire mesh. “Can you get them off, please.”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue and Charlotte hopped off her unwilling perch to join the others. Then he whistled high to low and held out his right arm. Emily obediently flew to him, chirping and cooing and bobbing her head at him.

“Terribly needy, this one.” He began stroking her feathers and she leaned into his hand. “She’s the eldest, and the boss of the flock. You can pet her, if you like.”

Crowley reached out a few tentative fingers to pat the speckled bird as though she might actually be a very hot stove. She nibbled at his fingertips and he withdrew at light speed.

“Oh, you needn’t worry about the biting!” Aziraphale assured him. “That’s just how she shows her love.”

“Right. Uh.” Crowley had backed up all the way to the door of the flight pen, eyes darting between the handful of feathered friends and Aziraphale, who now looked concerned.

“Something the matter, dear?”

“It’s just—I’m not all that fond of birds,” he said in a rush. 

Aziraphale was perplexed. “You needn’t torment yourself on my account? Let me put them up and you can head back inside.” He let Emily go and she flew to one of the perches to start preening.

No, no, it’s.” Crowley swallowed hard. “I’m trying to get over it. Exposure... thing.”

“Okay?”

“You go on. I’ll hang back and watch,” Crowley assured him.

They watched the flock duck their heads underneath the surface of the bath, bobbing back up in a spray of droplets and shaking the water through their wing feathers. They cooed with excitement, fluttering and splashing each other.

“Virginia, darling, play nice,” Aziraphale chided. “They’re incredibly social creatures, you know,” he added as an aside to Crowley. “You can’t keep just one. It’s torture for them to be alone all day.” He knelt down to watch them more closely and kept up a long-running babble about pigeon keeping: proper protein ratios in feed, daily exercise needs, concentrations of mineral grit, ideal nest box design. Crowley nodded along absently, edging closer to Aziraphale until their shoulders were almost touching.

“Can you call them back?”

He smiled and whistled a low tone—almost a coo, rolling from the back of his throat. The birds, who had been sunning themselves and stretching their wings, hopped closer to him. Crowley tried to match the sound. It was a little gravelly, but it might get better with practice. 

The shy Virginia detached from her friends and bounced toward him, ducking her head inquisitively. He reached out his hand again. She allowed him to pat her back, blinking and chattering quietly.

Aziraphale smiled. “There. See? You’ve made a new friend.”

Crowley grinned back. “I suppose I have.”

⁂

The Tadfield Garden Contest results were given out each year on a stage set up outside town hall. Refreshments would be provided by Michael and the other members of the Tadfield Primary School PTA. 

Crowley was standing with an increasingly nervous Aziraphale. He thought it was rather sweet that Aziraphale was so anxious on his behalf. Although the fidgeting was starting to get annoying. Crowley reached out a hand and gently laid it on Azirpahale’s arm, hoping the touch would calm him enough that he would stop rocking from foot to foot. The touch did the trick and Aziraphale settled. 

“My apologizes.” Azirphale murmured sheepishly. 

Crowley was reluctant to move his hand from Aziraphale’s arm but realized that perhaps he had been touching him too long. “No problem,” he said, scratching self-consciously at his neck. He glanced around the crowd to occupy himself. Gabriel stood a few meters away looking calm and collected, as usual. Newt and Anathema were by the beverage table laughing about something together—Crowley hoped that Aziraphale would notice them and believe that they were now on the mend. 

His eyes scanned along the refreshment tables and found Michael glaring suspiciously at Adam and his gang as they piled tarts and little cakes onto their plates. And close by, watching Michael, was Ligur. _Weird,_ Crowley thought, but then got distracted as Linda, Bee, and Hastur stepped on the stage. 

“Good afternoon everyone!” Linda beamed at the audience. This was the happiest Crowley ever saw her during the whole year—she loved being the center of attention. 

“The other judges and I have had the pleasure of seeing some very beautiful gardens today. Each year the gardens get better and better, and it becomes even harder for us to judge which one is the best!” She let out a shrill laugh. Crowley glanced at Bee and Hastur: the former was rolling their eyes so hard that it looked like they were in danger of getting stuck, while the latter was not even remotely paying attention and was digging at his ear. Crowley smirked. Bee and Hastur never paid any attention to Linda’s speech, which he was sure drove the woman mad. 

“So, let’s begin! Our third place winner is…” she grinned indulgently as she stopped for a dramatic pause, “Maud Simmons! Come up, please!” 

Maud beamed as she accepted a kiss from Leslie and climbed up the stairs to shake each of the judges’ hands. 

“Oh!” Azirpahale said as he clapped along with everyone else. “I didn’t know she gardened.”

“Yeah, she’s pretty good too. Her sunflowers are the best in town—even better than mine,” Crowley said. 

They watched as Maud graciously accepted her spade-shaped trophy from Linda and gave a little wave to Leslie, who was cheering loudly for his wife.

“Now, for our second place winner. This one was a hard year, folks.” She paused to grace the audience with a severe frown, so that they would begin to understand just how difficult her job was. “The other judges and I had to have a long and serious discussion about the nuances in performance between our top two competitors. One—” 

“Wait! WAIT!” came a shout from the audience. Crowley and the rest of the audience turned towards the voice. It was Gabriel, and Crowley watched with a mix of bemusement and wonder as he bounded up onto the stage. 

“He’s finally cracked,” Crowley murmured to Aziraphale, as he watched Gabriel wrestle the microphone out of Linda’s hand. (It didn’t look like it was easy, either, she was putting up a hell of a fight). Everyone in attendance were murmuring to each other as they watched. Bee and Hastur were standing slack-jawed up on stage. No one was doing anything to stop Gabriel, even Linda, who had lost the microphone and was standing off to the side looking stunned. 

“My God, what is he doing?” Aziraphale wrung his hands together as he watched. 

Crowley shrugged helplessly as he watched Gabriel clear his throat.

“There are a few things I need to get off my chest,” Gabriel swallowed thickly; he looked nervous. Someone in the audience near them muttered ‘twat’ and Aziraphale whipped around to shush them before Crowley could even think about doing the same. “Firstly, I would like to tender my official resignation from the Tadfield Gardening Society and announce that I will no longer be participating in any contests.” The murmurs picked up again at that—there were even a few gasps of surprise. Crowley suspected he was probably the only person not totally blindsided by this news, but that was only because of the couple of weird conversations he and Gabriel had about gardening. “Over the past few weeks I’ve been reevaluating myself and my life.” Gabriel’s audience all watched with bated breath as he turned to face Hastur and Bee, who were standing off to the side of the stage. Bee was shaking their head side to side like an automaton, eyes wide. “Bee, I love you. I love you more than I love my garden, more than this stupid contest, more than I’ve loved anything in my entire life. I’m sorry that I ever made you feel that you weren’t the most important thing in the world, to me.” Everyone was stunned and silent. Well, everyone except Aziraphale, who let out a quiet, wistful ‘awww’. 

Bee seemed to sway where they were standing for a moment before leaping at Gabriel. For a split second, a small part of Crowley wondered if Bee was going to _attack_ Gabriel. Instead, Gabriel caught Bee midair as Bee wrapped their legs around Gabriel’s waist and they started passionately snogging. 

Crowley wrinkled his nose. He did _not_ need to see that. The sound of shattering glass broke Crowley away from watching the two lovebirds. He turned to see Michael holding bits of glass that must have once been a champagne glass in her clenched fist. There was a mixture of shock, rage, and maybe even sorrow colliding in ungraceful furrows across her face. Crowley watched as Ligur carefully maneuvered her away from the crowd, probably checking to make sure she hadn’t cut her hand. 

Linda had snapped out of her gaping and made Hastur (who was watching the spectacle with captivated horror, like he was rubbernecking the scene of a car crash) help her shoo the still-tangled lump of Gabriel and Bee off the stage. Gabriel didn’t seem to have any intentions of letting Bee down, so he was still carrying them as he stumbled off the stage. The two of them didn’t seem to mind the stares, or Linda’s shooing efforts: they were too preoccupied with beaming like idiots at each other. 

“Well,” Linda began. Her microphone was back in hand. Gabriel and Bee had been successfully removed from the stage and had sped off in Gabriel’s car. Crowley didn’t even want to _think_ about what they might be getting up to once they got to their destination. The audience were still whispering amongst themselves—this was going to fuel the Tadfield gossip for months. “I suppose it would be pointless to name the second place winner, since he just quit the contest.” A couple of people tittered at that. “I shall, instead, announce the first place winner, or rather— _winners.”_

“Winners?” Aziraphale whispered to Crowley, looking confused. Crowley just grinned and winked at him.

“This year’s Tadfield Gardening Showcase winners are Anthony J. Crowley and Aziraphale Fell.” 

Crowley grinned as he turned to face Aziraphale. He wasn’t even annoyed that the applause this year was half-hearted (everyone was still too stunned by the scene Gabriel had put on). He only cared to see the look on Aziraphale’s face. And he wasn’t disappointed. Aziraphale’s hands were covering his mouth in shock. He turned to look at Crowley just as Crowley turned to face him. 

“I don’t understand,” Aziraphale whispered. His eyes were sparkling and Crowley could see the beginning of a smile creeping out from behind his hands. 

“If you hadn’t taken care of my garden while I was away, I never would have won this year—now come on!” Crowley said as he offered his hand to Aziraphale. Aziraphale didn’t even hesitate a second as he took it. “Let’s go accept that award.”

⁂

Crowley was still giddy, practically bouncing as they left the ice cream parlor. They walked the crooked path back home together, full and slightly sticky, as the sun dropped through the sky like an egg into a frying pan. He didn’t even seem to mind when Aziraphale laid a hand on his arm.

“I still can’t believe it,” he cackled. “Ohhh, the look on Hastur’s face. And _Michael!”_ He balled his hands into fists and squinted his eyes shut, apparently relishing this mental image. “She was so surprised, I thought she was going to keel over then and there. Bee and Gabriel, huh. More power to ‘em, they’re both super weird people honestly. Guess Gabriel finally figured it was time to knock off his moping and grow up a bit.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you and Gabriel were friends?” Aziraphale asked innocently.

Crowley looked confused by this line of questioning. “No. Well, sort of. I guess?”

“Been spending more time with him recently?”

“Yeah! I had to ask him to—” Crowley froze up, looking like he’d been caught in a lie. He wasn’t particularly good at lying, Aziraphale had noticed. “—to go over the judge’s rule book with me.” He forced a laugh. “Yeah. They introduced a bunch of new stuff this year, and I figured, who better to look it over with than the man who’s apparently my biggest rival!”

“I see. Sounds stimulating.”

“It’s not,” Crowley reassured him. “It’s complete boring rubbish. But you know how Gabriel is, he knows his way around legal codes and regulations. From his real estate stuff. Anyway, one of the times I showed up he was real haggard and mope-y. Looked sicker than a dog, you wouldn’t believe it. But then, hey! I come back a different day and he’s his usual infuriating self. Straight out of a Burberry catalog. Whatever, I’m happy for him.”

“Well, dear boy!” Aziraphale managed, as they approached their neighboring cottages. “You must come over to mine and toast our victory. I might even have a bottle of champagne knocking around somewhere...”

Crowley looked stricken. “I can’t. Not tonight.”

“Well, you wouldn’t have to stay all night long! Just a quick round of drinks. Maybe a snack.”

“I—Newt and Anathema are coming over straight away. I promised I wouldn’t cancel on them.”

Aziraphale forced some good humor onto his face. “They’re welcome to come over too! More the merrier, as far as I’m concerned. I’m sure I have enough to go around.” Crowley was still shaking his head. “Or I could come over to yours?”

“No.” This time his tone was firm. He squeezed his eyes shut like he was preparing to explain something difficult. “You really can’t. I wish I could explain.”

“All right, I won’t insist, then.”

Crowley stopped and just... looked at him. Aziraphale couldn’t read his expression at all. Then he stepped in for a quick hug. “Thank you. For the garden, for the house, for—for being with me today.” He pulled back, fixing him with a stare so close and unguarded their foreheads were almost touching. It was like he was trying to communicate with him soul-wise. “You mean a lot to me, you know that?”

Aziraphale half-laughed. “You tell me so about a dozen times a week, on average.”

“I know. But I just had to say it again.” He turned to go. “See you soon?”

“See you.”

Crowley spared only one last look over his shoulder, so he wasn’t able to see how his friend’s face fell. The soft yellow of the waning sun cast Aziraphale in shadow. A cold evening was on its way.

⁂

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spiro is accepting Good Omens prompt requests! Check this [Tumblr post](https://zombie-snape.tumblr.com/post/187933314232/do-you-have-a-good-omens-prompt-idea-you-really) for more details.
> 
> As always, thanks for your support!


	16. The Miracle Worker

⁂

Bee and their usual crew (plus Aziraphale) were gathered around their favorite table in the Bull and Fiddle. Granted, it was a little early to be drinking at 4pm on a Wednesday, but it was more of a catch-up meeting than anything. Namely, Ligur and Aziraphale were chomping at the bit for an exposé on the events at the garden gathering, Hastur was ignoring everyone and gnawing on a chicken leg, and Dagon was doing their best to keep order, which currently entailed acting like a harried agent slash-bodyguard-shooing paparazzi away from a Hollywood star.

“I thought you were on a break?” Ligur pressed.

“Did you know it was coming?” Aziraphale leaned forward with his hands clasped, stars in his eyes.

Dagon cleared their throat. “One at a time, please!”

Bee merely shook their head. “We were on a break. I hadn’t talked to him for a few weeks. And then he comes out of left field with... _that_.”

Ligur nodded appreciatively. Aziraphale practically swooned. Hastur burped.

“Do you think he did plan it? Or was it a spur-of-the-moment romantic inclination?” Aziraphale wondered.

They shrugged. “I don’t know. On one hand, Gabriel rarely thinks with his brain. On the other hand, I can’t see him having the guts to go up in front of everyone without preparing himself first.”

“Are you happier, now that you’re back together?” Ligur rarely wasted time in dithering; he preferred to get straight to the point.

Bee sipped their pint. “Yes.”

Ligur chuckled. “Still! Who could have seen it coming.”

“Crowley did.” Four heads swiveled to stare at Aziraphale. He clasped his hands over his mouth. “I’m sorry!”

Bee narrowed their eyes, shifting on their wooden perch. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, um, he knew—Gabriel—some,” he spluttered to a halt. “Said something about how Gabriel was teaching him about contest rules, and Gabriel being sick, or something, and then one day he suddenly turned his life around. I don’t know. He was terribly vague about it. Seems like they’ve become... friends, sort of.”

Dagon laughed, incredulous. “I’m sorry, are we talking about Gabriel _Godwin_ and _Anthony_ Crowley becoming friends? I’d have sooner believed that pigs flew, to be honest.”

“People do change,” Aziraphale meekly proffered.

“Why would Gabriel need to teach Crowley the rules? They’re competitors, or they were. And besides, the rule book hasn’t changed in more than five years. Crowley should have that thing memorized by now.” Bee crossed their arms.

“So there’s no new complicated new edition that was just released? No book of amendments? Bill of Rights?” Aziraphale confirmed sadly. Ligur made a sympathetic noise.

“No.” Bee cocked their head. “What’s going on between the two of you? One minute you’re tending his garden, next you’re winning a competition together...”

He withdrew. “I don’t know. We’re friends. We went on a date—once—I think? We used to spend a lot of time together. Now he seems to find every excuse not to see me. But he still acts friendly? And then there’s—this garden thing, I had no idea he’d entered me into it, too. Nor do I understand why he’d have to lie about spending time with Gabriel. I’m so confused.” He held his skull like it was coming apart at the seams. “I’m sorry. I’m babbling.”

“You should talk to him,” Hastur suggested mid-chew.

“Great advice, dipshit.” Dagon smacked Hastur on the back of the head, then paused to reconsider. “Actually, no, that is good advice. Talk to him.”

Bee shelled several peanuts in their palm at once with an unsettling splintering sound. “You get in touch with Crowley. I’ll pick Gabriel’s brain to see what he knows. Then we can meet up, compare notes. What say you?”

“Oh, would you?” Aziraphale looked relieved. “I would appreciate that very much.”

“It’s a deal.” They shook on it. Aziraphale tactfully brushed off peanut-shell fragments on the back of his trousers.

⁂

Anathema looked up from the banner she was paper-machéing. “Hey. Where are all the balloons?”

Nobody said anything. Newt, Tracy, and Shadwell shared suspicious glances. The Them remained silent.

She turned her gaze on the kids. “Where did the balloons go?”

Pepper and Brian giggled. Wensley looked angelic. Adam was conspicuously absent.

“I promise I won’t get mad. But you gotta tell me right now.”

All three looked at each other and bolted into the back garden, whooping and laughing. They scattered in a manner that was clearly designed to dissuade pursuit. She followed after them, shouting, “You get back in here, right now!” She turned to the other adults. Newt looked perplexed. Tracy looked exhausted. Shadwell was carefully examining his fingernails.

“Thomas,” Tracy began. “Where’s the tank of helium I asked you to pick up from the store?”

“I, erm,” he nibbled at his nails, “I asked the children to take care of it. Bit of trouble lifting it out of the boot, what with my back...” He looked up and then away again, as Marjorie’s stare was drilling holes in his head. “Figured the four of ‘em could handle it.”

Newt was aghast. “They’re _eleven_!” 

“They’re perfectly capable!” Shadwell argued. “Why, I had my first job at eleven...”

Anathema waved her hands as if to clear the air. “We don’t have time for this! Split up. Find Adam. Get the other three back inside, if you can.”

They tromped off. Newt was the first to wrestle a door open, and let out a long, slow breath. “Ana? I found the balloons...”

Tracy opened the door to the basement and squealed as she was accosted with a faceful of colorful latex. Balloons of every size and color came bursting up toward the ceiling, making hollow _thunk!s_ as they bounced off the walls and furniture.

“Adam, when I find you, you are _so dead_!” Anathema bellowed. The only response was a high-pitched cackle that seemed to come from everywhere. She started wrestling through the balloons, shoving through them as they bounced into each other and then right back at her. Newt seemed to be struggling behind her. There was a hiss of escaping air, and a sound not unlike flatulence as a filled balloon was released and went ricocheting around the room. More laughter.

“You have entered my domain! Muahaha!” said a chipmunk-esque voice over a set of tinny speakers. Then there came a loud bass booming. The overhead lights flicked off and everything was inconsistently illuminated by impressive black-and-white strobe lights.

“Where did he get that?!” Anathema yelled over the din

“Picked ‘em up at a rummage sale!” Shadwell called back.

“Can anyone get the lights?”

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Newt moaned.

Adam’s cronies rushed back into the room, running circles around the adults, by the sound of their laughter. Tracy tripped over what was either a small box or footstool and swore with some ferocity. More farting balloons went flying about.

Shadwell managed to flick on the light switch just as Anathema pulled the plug on the speakers, bringing music and strobes to a screeching halt.

The kids, who were wearing cheap Halloween masks and who had covered their arms and legs in craft paint, froze in place.

“You. Are In. _So Much Trouble_ ,” Anathema said, batting away balloons as the static electricity stuck them to her hair, drawing it away from her face in an angry cloud.

Brian flipped up his green Power Rangers mask. “Aw, we were just having fun.”

Wensleydale raised his hand. “Actually, we did blow the balloons up. Just like you asked.”

“To the sink, all of you, and wash off that paint. March,” Tracy instructed.

Once they had left, Anathema sagged. Newt patted her back in an attempt to comfort her. 

“I’m gonna lose it. I’m actually going to lose my mind,” she huffed.

“It’s not all bad!” Newt assured her. “Look, we can still tie strings around the ends of these.” He glared and made a ‘cease’ motion at Shadwell, who hurriedly let go of the balloon he was holding and returned his witchfinder’s pin to his breast pocket.

“This party had better damn well be worth it.”

⁂

Gabriel sat cross-legged on his sofa, wearing a small pair of glasses and fixating on his laptop screen, which displayed a complex-looking spreadsheet.

Bee yawned and draped themself over the sofa, mussing up Gabriel’s hair with their fingertips. “What’re you working on?”

“Nothing much, just the marketing budget for next month.”

“Sounds boring.” They scratched his scalp a little. 

He leaned back and sighed, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Very much so.”

“You coming to bed?”

“Yeah, yeah. ‘Minute.” He tapped out a few numbers and frowned.

“Oh, yeah, I was talking to that Fell guy today. Friend of Crowley’s?”

“Hm?” He refreshed a page.

“Yeah. Said Crowley knew something about your stunt from the other day.”

Gabriel closed his laptop and turned his full attention to Bee. “He did? How?”

“Beats me. You were teaching Crowley some kind of contest rules while you were sick? And then you were fine, and Crowley somehow divined that it had to do with me. Couldn’t make head or tail of it, honestly.” They jumped over the couch from behind and sat cross-legged, playing with one of Gabriel’s hands.

“I never taught him anything. He did come over once, right after our argument. I’m sure I wasn’t in the best shape. It was,” he coughed, “a little embarrassing. But anyway, Crowley kept going on and on about this party he was hosting. I pointed out if he did this, he would lose the contest, and he just said that his friend was more important than some prize would ever be. And I think then I started to realize how stupid I’d been, and that I needed a way to make it up to you.” He kissed Bee on the forehead. 

Bee sighed. “Then I supposed I’m indebted to Crowley, now. And you know I hate that.” Gabriel just chuckled. “Why do you think he’s making up this story about you and him being such great study-buddies?”

“Who understands anything that Crowley thinks about? Man’s certifiable.” If Gabriel had been paying attention, he might have noticed that Bee was making a face people only make when they are starting to put together the last couple pieces of a puzzle.

“Gabe. Shut up.” They smacked his arm, fidgeting excitedly. “It’s a surprise party. Aziraphale doesn’t know! Crowley’s trying to throw him off the scent.”

Gabriel was perplexed. “Why? Is it Aziraphale’s birthday, or something?”

“No, you idiot!” They leapt to their feet. “Aziraphale tells me they went on a date, or a sort-of date. But Crowley’s been acting weird and distant because of his idiot secret party. So Aziraphale thinks maybe Crowley’s leading him on. Crowley doesn’t realize they went on a date, but he does like Aziraphale, and is using this party as a chance to show him that.”

“Good for him?” You could lead a Gabriel to water, but he was going to stare at you like an addled cow while you laid everything out for him.

“It’s driving the little bastard crazy. You’ve never seen someone so bent out of shape.” Their partner shrugged, as if he couldn’t see any reason this was his problem. “Gabriel. We have to help them figure it out. They got us back together, we return the favor. Capische? I’m not having this hanging over my head.”

Gabriel sighed. “All right, if I see an opening, I’ll offer to help. Party’s tomorrow, anyway. Not sure how much more we could do.”

“Then we’re both going.” He opened his mouth to argue. “No buts!”

⁂

Madame Tracy was marching up and down the cottage with her clipboard, checking and double-checking the things on her list, which now resembled an ancient scroll covered in hieroglyphics more than a yellow legal pad. “And Aziraphale will arrive at...” Tracy furrowed her brow. “When does he get here, again?”

“He’ll get here when...” Crowley trailed off, holding out an icing knife. “Oh. Fuck.”

Newt winced. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“I fucking forgot to invite him.”

Anathema turned very very slowly to stare at him. “You forgot. To invite Aziraphale. To the party you are hosting _specifically for him_.”

“You may be a clever lad, but sometimes you’re not very bright,” Shadwell put in.

The knife clattered on the counter with a dull metal sound. “I’m sorry! With all the secret secrecy stuff, I was just focused on keeping him out of it. I forgot I’d actually have to _get_ him there... without saying what we were really doing...”

“Well!” Tracy barked, making a shooing motion at him. “Go call him! Pray that he doesn’t have something better planned on Saturday!”

Someone’s phone buzzed and they all slapped their pockets. Crowley emerged triumphant. “Wait! Everyone shut up. It’s Aziraphale.” He smashed the phone to his ear, then scrambled to a corner of the room. 

“Uncanny timing!” Newt noticed.

Tracy sighed. “I suppose if he’s busy, we can still all go and eat cake.”

⁂

Aziraphale picked up the phone, heart hammering.

He was more nervous, somehow, than the time he’d asked Crowley out to dinner-and-stargazing. Perhaps this was higher stakes.

“ ‘Lo? Aziraphale!!” Crowley was as effusive as ever. “Been meaning to talk to you!”

“As have I. Crowley, I—um—” 

There was a lot of rustling from his friend’s side of the line. It almost sounded like he was shushing someone.

“Listen, I have to ask a favor,” Crowley ploughed straight ahead. “I need you to go with me to the Tadfield Community Center on Saturday, because there’s going to be a—” He hesitated, or perhaps the connection was bad. “A careers fair. Yeah. I’m looking for a new... job. And this seemed like a good place to start. But I didn’t want to go by myself, because I hate meeting strangers.”

“A careers fair.”

“Yup.”

“To get a job.”

“Yup.”

Aziraphale sighed and scratched the back of his head. “I suppose so? I don’t have anything else planned. Not really my idea of a fun afternoon. But sure. I’ll go.”

Crowley sounded thoroughly relieved. “Thank you! You’re a real lifesaver.” He fumbled with something in the foreground. “It’s, um, formal-ish. So dress... smart?”

“Okay?” This was getting stranger by the minute. “Listen, Crowley, I have to—”

There was a proper crash on Crowley’s end. It sounded like an elephant had just discovered pane glass. “So sorry, I can’t stay long, sort of in the middle of something here. Just meet me there at 4 p.m. on Saturday. Go ahead and walk through the big doors. I’ll wave at you when you come in. Okay! Bye.”

“But!” The line died. Aziraphale put his head in his hands.

⁂

Crowley hung up the call, breathless.

Newt and Anathema, who had been practically biting their fists, now looked at each other and broke into open guffaws. Newt was still sprawled on the floor next to the pile of bins he’d knocked over in his attempt at a casual lean. Shadwell tittered from the arts-and-crafts table, where he was putting his scissors to good use cutting colorful pieces of paper into confetti.

“You told him you were going to a _jobs fair_?!” Tracy bellowed. 

“I panicked!”

“That’s evident.”

Anathema held up her hand. She was intent on reading something on her phone. “Uhh, guys. I’ve got bad news.” Her face was scrunched up into a wince. 

“What now!” Crowley groaned. 

“The florist just texted. She’s really sick and wasn’t able to get the centerpieces done. Her assistant will be driving down with what she’s got, plus the refund for your deposit and for the missing flowers. But... we’re on our own for the rest of it.”

“Oh dear.” Madame Tracy murmured as Crowley cursed loudly and flopped down onto his couch.

“Can you make them yourself?” Newt asked. 

“No. I don’t have enough flowers.” Crowley seemed to be sinking further and further into the cushions, his voice becoming forlorn. “The party is ruined,” he said dramatically. 

“Good God.” Tracy rolled her eyes. She stalked over to Crowley, grabbed him by his boney shoulders and shook him sharply. “Pull yourself together! Who do we know that has a background in flower arranging? Who has recently become our ally? Who suggested that florist in the first place?”

Crowley blinked at her. He looked a bit dazed from all the shaking. “Gabriel?” he guessed.

“Yes! Gabriel.” She pulled him to his feet. “Call him now.” 

“Yes.” Crowley just barely stopped himself from adding ‘ma’am’. He scrambled over to his phone and quickly picked Gabriel’s number from his contact list.

“Gabriel Godwin speaking.” 

“Hi, Gabriel. You remember how you said you’d help with the party?”

“Of course. But isn’t it tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I, uh, I need your help. Sort of an emergency.”

“What’s happened?” 

“Sick florist. No centerpieces. I don’t have enough flowers to make them myself.” 

“Oh, no. That is a problem.” There was a pause and Crowley would hear Gabriel speaking to someone else but couldn’t make out the words. “You’ll need flowers?”

“Yes, and someone to help me arrange them,” Crowley said hopefully.

“Bee and I will be right over. I’ll call around to the other neighbors and see how many flowers we can get.”

“Thank you so much,” Crowley said, feeling as if he could finally breathe again. “I’ll cut down any usable flowers from my own garden.”

“Don’t worry, Crowley. We’ll have those centerpieces done in time.”

⁂

Gabriel and Bee arrived with buckets of fresh-picked flowers from various gardens around the village. Crowley could spy out Maud’s prize winning sunflowers, Gabriel’s pink roses, Bee’s gardenias, and even Linda’s gladiolus. Gabriel immediately doled out sets of flowers to Anathema, Newt, Tracy, and Shadwell, who set to work copying Gabriel’s design.

“Hi, Bee,” Crowley sighed. “Come to gloat?”

“If that’s the way you treat everyone who shows up to help you, I’m surprised you have any friends left at all.” Crowley scoffed at them. Usually that kind of derision would get Bee’s hackles up, but instead they softened. “What is all this for, anyway?”

He sniffed. “Don’t see why it should matter to you.”

They pulled him roughly aside. “It’s come to my attention that I may have you partially to thank for a recent turn in my affairs.”

“Oh. Yeah. Congratulations on... that,” he said, waving vaguely at Gabriel, who was utterly absorbed in tying up bouquets with shiny purple ribbon. “Many happy solicitations, or whatever. Why does it have to be a party _for_ something? It’s a surprise party. It’s supposed to be surprising. Anyway, the party hardly matters. Everything’s going to fall apart on me.”

“Eyes on me,” Bee snapped. He obliged, meeting their steely blue stare with more than a hint of misgiving. “Does Anthony Crowley fucking give up on something that matters?”

“Yeees,” he nodded. Bee glared harder. “Nooo,” he shook his head.

“And when things get difficult, we?”

“Keep trying and don’t abandon it,” he said, sullen.

“And is this going to be the best party Aziraphale, and the rest of Tadfield, has ever seen?”

He protested: “How do you know about—” They snapped right in his face, and Crowley shut his trap and just nodded.

“That’s what I thought. Now, get back to work. We have flowers to arrange.”

⁂

The planning party stayed up just past three in the morning, before collapsing around the house, piled onto recliners and sofas or bundled up in blankets on the floor.

Tracy dragged herself awake at eight and was able to rouse Gabriel. The two of them poked and prodded the other party members until they got out of their makeshift beds and sleepwalked into their morning routines. 

Anathema asked Tracy to curl her hair, since it was too early to tell the difference between the handle and the business end of the iron. She sat, squinting bleakly into Crowley’s bathroom mirror. Newt told her she looked something along the lines of ‘adorably disheveled’ and was treated to a killer sleep-deprived side-eye.

Bee and Gabriel did their best to pile the flowers and decorations into various automobiles, alongside Shadwell, who didn’t seem to feel the lack of sleep at all. In fact he was nauseatingly chipper, and merely grinned like the Cheshire Cat when he was caught out ladling half of Crowley’s sugar container into his cup of breakfast tea.

By the time they got Crowley behind the wheel of the Bentley, it was nearly ten a.m. They arrived at the venue, and levered open the doors of the Community Center, walking straight into the center of the room and turning a full circle to take stock of all they could see. 

All the lights were off. Tables were folded and stacked in piles five deep. The chairs, too, were lined up along the walls. A large dust bunny rolled mournfully through the center of the hall.

Tracy, per usual, launched straight into action. “All right, everyone! First things first, we’ll need tables up and tablecloths on. Six chairs per table, please! We’ll need two of you to set up the stage and get the lights and electrical hooked up. Decor crews get started after that. Caterers are getting here at three, musicians at three-thirty. I want everything in tip-top shape before then, got it?” There was a melody of fatigued acknowledgement as the crew set about their tasks.

Crowley groaned. It would take a _miracle_ to pull this party off.

⁂

It wasn’t long before they all realized they’d need more hands on deck. Bee called up their friends and sibling, who rallied and arrived in short order. Dagon set right to work on the glitchy electricals and pulled Ligur in as their assistant. Hastur proved to have some uncanny strength, and was soon lifting and adjusting heavy ABS tables as though they were made of plywood.

Gabriel made a few charismatic calls out to the community. He was able to coax Maud and Leslie to come in early; Maud was delighted to hang streamers and set out vases on the tables, Leslie had once worked food service and was happy to help the caterers arrange their equipment according to code. He’d also brought a few trays of his famous brownies to share. Mary Hodges was a veritable bloodhound for presentation equipment, and she showed up with a projector and screen which she used to rebroadcast the PowerPoint she’d made for the Gardening Showcase. 

Gabriel even convinced Linda Dorne to help, claiming that nobody ‘quite shared her eye for interior design’. This was just enough flattery for her to show up and start bossing everyone around, much to Tracy’s annoyance.

Mrs. Young pulled up out front and an innumerable quantity of children spilled out of the car. She seemed mostly grateful to have an afternoon of free babysitting, and waved briefly at Madame Tracy before speeding off.

The Them and a few of their school frenemies spent a brief, productive hour setting out the treasures they’d procured on Crowley’s behalf and tacking some glitter-glued posters to the walls. Then they’d gotten distracted creating an elaborate political system based on the colors of balloons they held, consequently hosting raids on one anothers’ stashes and capturing hostages.

Things were finally starting to come together. Then there came the malignant _click-clack_ of a set of sharp heels.

Heads turned. In walked Michael Godwin, gleeful, clipboard in hand, with a jubilant R. P. Tyler at her side.

Catching her brother’s eye, she merely sneered at him and Bee. Gabriel shook his head at her. 

She gave a haughty once-over to the proceedings. “How... charming,” she sniffed. “Seems like you all have really tried your _hardest_ to put together this—gathering.” One half of the SURPRISE! banner came un-tacked, fluttering limply. “I’m here to give you all the relief you so clearly need.” She gave an unfriendly smile to Anathema, who was struggling to keep her eyes open. “You see, this party has been put to rest. Your permit to use this space is formally revoked.”

There was a gasp of outrage from the crowd.

“Now, see here, lass!” Shadwell barked, pointing an accusing finger. “These people have worked hard to put this event together! There’s no cause to come in here and meddle where you have no right.”

“Actually, I have every right.” Her smile was thinner and sharper than razor wire. “This event isn’t up to code. In the interest of safety, and to protect the public of Tadfield, I have full authority to shut down any gathering I see fit.”

“That’s right!” Tyler cheered.

“Prove it.”

“Excuse me?”

Ligur stood from the table where he was carefully mending a frayed electrical cord. He took a few slow steps toward her. “I said, prove it. Show us the covenant we’re supposedly violating.”

She spluttered like a faulty engine. “Prove?! I don’t have to prove anything! As far as you’re all concerned, my word is law!”

“Where’s the contract, Michael?” Gabriel had taken his own stand, setting down a basket of ornate wrapped chocolates. “You know, the one I forwarded you to sign? Concerning the rental of one Tadfield Community Center for September the 7th?”

“Contract?” Her head whipped back and forth, watching as others began to rise. “Whose side are you on, Gabriel?”

“Answer the question!” Dagon shouted from the back.

“Breach of contract is a very serious accusation, Michael.” Bee reached for Gabriel’s hand and stood with him. “Surely you can point to the exact clause you suspect us to be in violation of?”

Madame Tracy sat on a table with her arms crossed. “I know I submitted all of my permits on time. In fact, I made copies. And I have them right here.” She dug into her overlarge purse and produced a manila folder, then dropped it on the tabletop with a satisfying thwack.

Crowley was watching the proceedings with growing delight.

“Answer the woman,” Ligur seconded.

“You—I’ll—I’ll have the police involved!” Michael fumed.

“They won’t come,” Hastur said. He wasn’t really paying attention to anything that was going on, just picking at his fingernails with a pocketknife. “Not without clear evidence of wrongdoing. But you don’t have that, do you, Michael?”

Tyler was looking less and less sure of himself. He was scanning the faces of his one-time restrained and predictable neighbors, who seemed to have all turned against the forces of Law and Order. He glanced up at Michael for reassurance.

“This isn’t over!” she snapped. “I’ll have you know—”

“Oh, it’s done, all right.” Newton Pulsifer strode forward toward her, without a flinch or a stammer to be seen. “Now, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

There was a small ‘Yes!’ from the corner, where Anathema had apparently awoken from her midday drowse to witness an historic event.

“It’s time to go. Both of you.” With that, Gabriel made a little shooing motion at his sister, who had gone ghost-white with shock and rage, and Tyler, who was already edging backward toward the doorway.

Michael stood stock-still for a moment, dumbfounded, before curling her lips into a grimace, turning on her heel, and marching out without another word.

“Come back with a warrant!” Dagon called after her. The audience laughed and cheered.

⁂

At 4 pm sharp, the front doors creaked open. In walked a cautious, dapper figure. Crowley’s heart leapt into his mouth and he staggered to his feet.

“Hi, Aziraphale!” he borderline-shouted.

“ _Surprise_!” the town echoed. Tracy, Anathema and the rest waved enthusiastically.

A slow progression of expressions graced the guest of honor’s face. First, pure shock and surprise, as he processed the chorus of voices bellowing at him. Then, wonder as he took in the explosion of color and masses of decorations. Confusion, as he shook his head from side to side. And then he put a hand to his mouth and began to cry, retreating backwards from the scene.

_Ah, shit_. Crowley rushed to his side, guiding Aziraphale by the hand into a dimly-lit side room. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, trying to pat Aziraphale’s back in a comforting manner.

“I thought... I thought you were all avoiding me because you didn’t want to be my friends anymore!” he wailed. “I shouldn’t... I was so stupid, I should have trusted you...” 

“Oh, no.” He hadn’t even considered that. “Aziraphale, this was all for you! I meant it to be a surprise.”

“All this?” Aziraphale looked out toward the hall, where the children’s earnest decorations could be seen and a quiet cacophony of sound lurked just around the corner. “For me? Why?”

“Um, I dunno. Seemed like you were feeling down for a while and I... I wanted you to feel properly welcome here.” Crowley scratched at his ear, feeling awkward. “Yeah, and then it picked up speed and a bunch of other people got involved. I think it maybe got a bit out of hand.”

He pressed his face between his hands, laughter brightening his tearstained face. “ ‘A bit out of hand?’ Crowley, you are so...”

He waited on bated breath for the answer. Aziraphale was still giggling and wiping his eyes. “Yes? I’m what, now?”

Aziraphale caught his face in both hands and kissed him. 

Crowley floundered, forgetting what he was supposed to do with his hands. Aziraphale pulled him in closer and suddenly all that didn’t matter anymore.

They broke for air. Aziraphale had looped both arms around his waist and was now snuggled into his shoulder. Crowley’s heart was still pounding, but it all felt very natural, as if they’d been meaning to do this for a long time. He returned the favor, resting his hand on Aziraphale’s back and feeling his breathing even out to calmness.

Aziraphale pulled back to look Crowley in the eyes. “This was all a very sweet gesture. And! Don’t you _ever_ try to surprise me again,” he scolded him with mock-sternness.

“I won’t. Scout’s honor,” Crowley replied when he’d regained his senses. “I’ve been dying to tell you about it for weeks.”

Aziraphale straightened his tie and attempted to brush imaginary wrinkles out of his coat. “Well. As much as I’d like to stay here in the dark and catch up with you, I suppose we had better get back to your party.”

“If you’re sure?” Crowley’s brow furrowed. “It’s not too late to cancel, you know. I can tell everyone to shove off home and take a piece of cake and a plate of leftovers with them. Not a moment’s worry.”

“I think,” he mused, tapping Crowley’s chest, “that you would have a lot of very unhappy guests. It seems practically everyone in town has worked hard to put whatever this is together! Also, I think the band’s starting up, and I’d hate to miss the music.”

Crowley stood and offered him his arm. “Fair enough. And I did sort-of learn how to waltz for the occasion.” 

“You what!” Aziraphale’s eyes glittered with amusement. “Anthony Crowley, I believe we’ll make a romantic out of you yet.”

His host scrunched his mouth like an accordion. “Point of interest, are we a ‘thing’? Like, uh, a dating-thing?”

He gets a puzzled look in return. “Yes? I thought we had been for a while?”

“Oh. I hadn’t realized.”

“Ohhh.” Aziraphale scratched at his chin. “Kiss too soon then?”

“Kiss perfectly timed, I think.” He fidgeted with the hem of his jacket. “It’s just... on second thought, I thought this might all seem like an elaborate ploy to get in your pants. Or something. It wasn’t.”

“Do you want to? ‘Get in my pants’?”

Crowley felt his face embark on a long and weary journey as he attempted to process this. Finally, he ended up with an intelligent “Ghhhh?”

Aziraphale grinned wickedly and patted his cheek. “Only teasing, dear.”

“I—I started this whole thing, because—” He could feel his breath growing short, his treacherous throat closing up on him. He soldiered on. “Because I want you to know that you’re my best friend, and I love you, and lots of other people here love you too. That you’ll always have a home here. In Tadfield.” His hands balled involuntarily into fists, and he swung his arms aimlessly. “I don’t know if that makes sense.”

Aziraphale’s hand found his, fingers tracing down his wrist and entwining with his own. “It makes perfect sense, my love. Crystal clear.”

⁂

They emerged into the light and chaos of the festivities. Guests were now enthusiastically mingling, having been saturated with enough pastries and fine-quality social lubricant to be interested in making small talk with relative strangers. Gabriel appeared to be boring his small audience with tales of daring real-estate conquests. Standing beside him was a boy who might be his nephew, Warlock. The boy in question had a large biscuit in one hand and a handheld video game in the other, and appeared to be giving the proceedings not one ounce of his attention.

Hastur and Dagon appeared to have wrangled several bottles of stout and were having an impromptu drinking contest as Ligur timed them, looking as intent upon form and philosophy as if he were keeping score for a high-stakes football match. Bee watched their antics with crossed arms and an expression of affectionate disdain.

Leslie and Maud were reprising their role as the Besotted Couple; they had their arms tangled around each other in gooey devotion. Maud was showing a bit more heavily and had elected to show that off in a lovely floral maternity blouse. They were listening to Mary Hodges, who, if the set of her jaw and her excited pacing had anything to say about it, was practicing a pitch for some sort of board meeting. She seemed rather happy just to have someone listen to her.

Shadwell was at a table of his own, consuming a mountain of small treacle cakes stacked on top of each other. He was so thoroughly engrossed in his pursuit that Aziraphale briefly wondered if he’d figure out a way to unhinge his jaw and swallow the plate whole. Speaking of—

“Is Crawly attending this party, then?”

Crowley laughed and shook his head. “She’s safely stowed at home. Figured we didn’t need any of her antics to liven up tonight.”

“Well, if you ever need a conversational escape hatch, I find that runaway reptiles are hard to beat.”

“Hi, Mr. Fell!” Wensleydale said upon noticing the pair, waving with such gusto he almost knocked over Linda Dorne’s pudding. The rest of the Them, having been alerted, crowded round Aziraphale.

“Is it your birthday, then?” Pepper demanded to know.

“No, I’m afraid not.” He smiled at their perplexed expressions.

“What are you sad about?” Brian probed, noticing his blotchy face. “Are you going away?”

“Not sad, dear boy, not even a bit! Just the opposite, in fact. I think I’ve decided to stay here for good.”

“Cool, whatever,” Adam interrupted. “C’mon, we made you some stuff.” He grabbed Aziraphale by the arm and forcibly dragged him to a small side table where the children’s gifts were displayed.

There was the moustache heart, a plastic bag full of seeds with GOOD PEAR SEEDS written on it in emphatic Sharpie marker, and a standing-up card with a flattened red begonia on its crinkled brown-bag cover. ‘Happy Birthday, Azeerfel,’ was written on it in painstaking cursive.

“Apparently it’s not actually your birthday,” Pepper said, “so I guess you can have it for whenever your birthday actually is.”

“We did steal the flowers,” Adam announced with a tinge of boasting in his voice. “Crowley put us in trouble for it, and then we had to go apologize to Mr. Gabriel for stealing ‘em.”

Wensleydale had dragged Mr. and Mrs. Wensleydale over to show off his lizard-branch. Mrs. Wensleydale examined it from all angles. “Uncanny! This oak branch appears to exactly mimic a member of the genus _Zootoca_ , species name _vivipara_ , if I’m not mistaken.”

“I thought so, too!” Wensleydale grinned.

“The eyes are a nice touch,” his father added, ruffling his son’s hair. “Nice work, Youngster!”

Pepper held out a mostly-clean napkin to Aziraphale, who was getting teary-eyed again. He thanked her and dabbed at his face. 

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Excellent! Thank you,” he sniffled. “Thank you all for sharing these with me.”

“All right, all right. Why don’t you four get into trouble somewhere else?” Crowley guided his new...boyfriend? away from the kids, who were now having a row about which superpowers were ideal and which were for dummies. He was trying not to tear up himself, which was, of course, ridiculous. Instead, he pressed a glass of wine into Aziraphale’s hand, who accepted it gratefully, and took one for himself.

Kay the origami instructor spotted Crowley and waved at the couple. “Hi, Crowley! Congrats on your engagement. I see your swans have come a long way!”

“Oh, we’re not—” Crowley fumbled. Aziraphale elbowed him.

“Thank you,” he told them, returning a gracious smile.

“But it’s—” Crowley protested, once Kay had gone. “Then they’ll think—”

“I hardly think it matters, do you?” Aziraphale asked, urging him along. “Let the people have their fun.”

They caught sight of Newt and Anathema, both of whom looked exhausted and were sipping very pink cocktails.

“Hello, you two!”

Newt whipped his head around. “Aziraphale! We’ve been planning a surprise party for you! We couldn’t invite you over because then you would figure it out! Anathema and I aren’t on a break! We had to let you believe it so you wouldn’t ask prying questions! I hate lying, I’ve been dying to tell you about it all! Oogh,” he finished, forehead slumping against the table. Anathema patted his back.

“I must say, this is a spectacular party. I’m sure you all had quite a large hand in planning it. Thank you both so much,” Aziraphale smiled at the young couple. 

“Of course,” Anthema grinned back at him. “You’ve been a good friend to all of us, and we wanted to make sure Tadfield felt like home to you.” Newt weakly nodded his agreement. 

Aziraphale swirled his wine thoughtfully. “I have to ask, were you two ever really fighting?”

Newt exchanged an uncomfortable glance with Crowley. Anathema burst out laughing. “No, we weren’t. That was all the work of Crowley’s panicked mind.”

“Oh dear, I must have seemed like such a fool, giving you relationship advice.” Aziraphale’s cheeks had gone a little pink.

“Not at all! I actually enjoyed your advice, especially the antique erotica you showed me.” Newt’s jaw dropped. Anathema just giggled at him.

“You showed her _what_?” Crowley gaped at Aziraphale.

“My antique erotica collection, dear.” He gave Crowley’s hand a light pat. “I’ll be sure to show it to you sometime.” Aziraphale winked and Crowley seemed to choke on air.

⁂

Aziraphale was sampling meat pies by the refreshment table. He could see Crowley across the room arm wrestling Adam. The children had all but dragged Crowley away from Aziraphale, demanding that he take part in their antics.

“Do you like it?” Aziraphale turned to see Madame Tracy smiling at him. 

“Oh yes, these pies are scrummy!” 

“I mean the party, dear. But I’m glad you’re enjoying the catering.” She took a bite out of her own pie.

“It’s wonderful,” Aziraphale couldn’t help but blush. “I could never have dreamed of having such an extravagant party thrown for me.”

Tracy laughed. “If Crowley would of had it his way this party would be _much_ more extravagant. He wanted ice sculptures and caviar.”

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale murmured. He glanced over at Crowley who was now cheering Pepper on as she arm wrestled Newt. _What a kind and wonderful man_ , Aziraphale thought a bit dreamily. “Did you help keep him on the right track?”

Tracy smiled ruefully. “Sometimes. But often I was right along with him.” She paused thoughtfully for a moment, “he does care for you so much. With my romantic heart, it was hard for me to say no to him.”

“I can’t fault you,” Aziraphale chuckled. “I wouldn’t have been able to tell him no either. You all did an excellent job planning it. I’ve never been to a better party.”

⁂

There was a shriek of microphone feedback. “Hi,” said Adam, voice booming across the crowded hall.

Arthur made a motion as if to rise to his feet. Deirdre grabbed his arm and sat him back down.

“We suppose you’re wondering why we invited you all here today,” Adam continued. “Me ‘n Brian, Pepper, and Wensleydale wanted to throw this awesome party for our friend Mr. Crowley.”

Brian swung the spotlight around to land on Crowley, who was glaring daggers at the kids. Aziraphale nudged him, laughing. Anathema had her face buried in both hands.

“Yeah, he’s way cooler than all of you guys. No offense. Even if he does yell at us sometimes.” There was another screech as Wensleydale plugged something into the audio system. “So we’re gonna play one of the best songs for him.”

The familiar opening strains of _We Will Rock You_ came blasting over the speakers.

“We know you know it!” Adam called, trying to get the crowd riled up. “Go ahead and sing along, please!”

The band members looked at each other, shrugged, and joined in as orchestral accompaniment. The baffled adult guests joined in to the familiar rhythm of stomp-stomp clap, stomp-stomp clap.

“Stupid kids,” Crowley muttered, but Aziraphale could see he was grinning from ear to ear.

⁂

Eventually, the children finished their spirited rendition (complete with enthusiastic air guitar). The music tapered off to quiet, with some of the guests laughing and others muttering about ‘what exactly was going on here.’

“Thank you, thank you!” Adam said. “We’ll be here all week.”

Pepper grabbed the microphone. “Happy not-birthday, Mr. Aziraphale!”

Wensleydale jostled for his turn. “Hi Mr. Fell! Hi Newt! Hi Crowley! Hi Anathema! Hi Mum! Hi Dad!”

“FIGHT THE POWER!!” Brian yelled into the mic, doing his best impression of devils’ horns.

Arthur Young had new extricated himself from his wife’s grasp and was striding across the room toward them.

“Bye everyone!” Adam concluded. He dropped the mic and the four scattered, laughing uproariously as they evaded Adam’s father.

“Well, I think that was quite enough excitement for one everning,” Tracy said. She was now well into her third champagne flute and had much recovered her usual good humor.

Having finished their foray into classic rock, the band was now starting up their first formal waltz of the night. Tracy gave Crowley a Meaningful Look and tapped her watch.

“Aziraphale. Would you, um,” Crowley stood back, offering a hand like he’d practiced with Newt. “Would you like to dance?”

He looked absolutely smitten. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Crowley led him out to the center of the dance floor. At first, he was painfully aware of everyone watching them. But all of it melted away when Aziraphale took his hand and looked up at him, serene and patient.

“Fair warning,” Crowley told him, “I will probably step on your toes.”

Aziraphale stepped nearer, taking hold in closed position like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Crowley, my dear,” he smiled. “Let me lead.”

And, Crowley mused, perhaps the best miracles in the world were the ones you made yourself.

⁂

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end folks! 
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with us during this journey. We had a lot of fun publishing our first longform fic together (fun fact: we started dating while writing this). We hope you've enjoyed our AU world and our interpretations of the characters! 
> 
> Love, Spiro and ProblematicPitch <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Please leave a comment and kudos if you enjoyed our story.
> 
> Check us out on tumblr! Spiro: [zombie-snape.tumblr.com](https://zombie-snape.tumblr.com/) and ProblematicPitch: [trekmemes.tumblr.com](https://trekmemes.tumblr.com/) or their GO side blog: [thwartingly.tumblr.com](https://thwartingly.tumblr.com/)


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